


Recipe for Success

by khasael



Series: Recipe for Disaster [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Food Prep, Alternate Universe - Food Service, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Alternate Universe - School, Bakery, Baking, Cooking, Food, Jealousy, M/M, Restaurants, alternate universe - culinary school, internships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2017-11-29 16:42:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 69,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/689161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khasael/pseuds/khasael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the first semester of culinary school completed, Arthur, Eames, and Ariadne continue to hone their skills in the culinary arts, focusing a bit more deeply on courses that will help them get the sort of job they want, upon completion of their degrees. This semester, as part of the curriculum (and to help them get an idea of what a job in the culinary industry looks like, outside the classroom), they each have the opportunity to take an internship with a bakery or restaurant in the Los Angeles area. As they get a good look at what a real professional kitchen looks like, they also test their respective relationships and friendships, discovering whether they can take the heat, after all. [Sequel to Recipe for Disaster]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Round 3 of the Inception Big Bang on LJ, and a direct sequel to last round's [Recipe for Disaster](http://archiveofourown.org/works/337817).
> 
> There is also fantastic art to accompany this piece, by the lovely and talented yjudaes, whom you can find [on livejournal](http://yjudaes.livejournal.com/) or [her tumblr account](http://dorkbait.tumblr.com/). The art itself is ["Buttercream"](http://yjudaes.livejournal.com/419365.html) (hosted on her LJ). Leave a comment for her, if you can. She volunteered to pinch-hit and give this fic something pretty to go along with it, and did a fantastic job with it. I couldn't be happier to have her as my artist for this round <3

This was not where Arthur had expected to be, come Christmas morning.

A month ago, if he'd been asked, Arthur would have assumed Christmas would have been very much like Thanksgiving--spent alone in his apartment, enjoying a bit of a break from school, and with plenty of free time to mess around in his kitchen and maybe try a new recipe or two. He'd figured he would sleep in a little, make coffee, watch something from his DVR, make his way into the kitchen when he got bored of that, and maybe reread a favorite book from his shelf while things were in the oven.

So to discover his face nestled between two thick, firm pillows that were nothing like the ones on his bed, and with one foot poking out from underneath the ridiculously plump comforter he most certainly didn't own...well, it was momentarily disorienting.

But then the faint aroma of coffee registered in Arthur's semi-conscious brain, and he woke up enough to remember where he was: in Eames's bed, in one of the guest bedrooms on the upper floor of the place where he lived while his friend was out of the country.

Arthur yawned as he stretched, taking a moment to thoroughly enjoy how comfortable Eames's bed was, and rubbed at his face before sitting up. There was a robe laid across the foot of the bed on Eames's side--a worn-in-looking red plaid thing that looked completely out of place against the blue, slate, and brown duvet-cover, and Arthur looked at it for a moment, knowing it had been left for him. He debated throwing it on and heading for the kitchen, though he could just as easily toss on the clothes he'd been wearing yesterday. But he couldn't help but glance at the adjoining bathroom, which was about a million times nicer than any in the places Arthur had ever lived, and had a shower to kill for.

In the end, it was the coffee sitting on the nightstand that decided him.

He hadn't seen it at first, but his instinctive reach for his phone to check the time had nearly caused him to bump into it. It was only lukewarm, but did have a splash of milk, and Arthur appreciated that Eames had somehow managed to get up, make coffee for him, and wander back downstairs without waking him. He wasn't an exceptionally heavy sleeper most of the time, but they'd been up late and had spent quite a while wearing each other out.

Arthur grinned and reached for the robe. It smelled just a little like Eames--not of the cologne that Arthur loved, but just the faint scent of his skin and soap and deodorant, and wrapping himself in it was a nice way to start the morning.

Of course, there were other nice ways to begin the day, weren't there?

Eames was standing at the stove when Arthur hit the house's secondary kitchen, using a fork to flip what looked like thick slices of ham in a non-stick frying pan. As Arthur watched, Eames laid the ham onto two plates, then cracked open four eggs into the little bit of hot fat still in the pan and turned the heat down on the burner. Arthur approached, stomach growling, and stood behind Eames, who grinned at the sound, audible even over the sound of the eggs frying. "Wake with an appetite, did we?"

Arthur snorted a little and peered over Eames's shoulder. "Well, we did get a good workout last night."

"That we did. Very enjoyable, if tiring." Eames put down the spatula he'd used to separate the eggs apart and turned into Arthur, who leaned forward to meet him for a kiss. Arthur could taste Earl Grey, and couldn't help but smirk at the memory of Ariadne's voice, saying _be more British, I dare you_ during their study session for last semester's midterms. "Christmas may have come a bit early, but we did not."

Arthur laughed in spite of himself. "Really? Innuendo at nine in the morning?"

Eames just grinned at him and picked up the spatula again. "Any time, really. Sleep well?"

"Yeah. I don't know how you manage to drag yourself out of that bed every morning. It's too comfortable to want to leave."

"Well, most mornings, I have to tell myself it's stay in bed and laze the day away, or get up and see you. Not difficult to see which scenario wins out." He paused, gently turning over the eggs and managing not to pop any of the yolks. "Do forgive the overly soppy nature of that statement as part of a general Christmas cheer."

"If that's what you want to blame it on," Arthur agreed, popping four slices of bread into the toaster and turning one dial to halfway between "light" and "medium," and the other to as light as it would go. Funny--he and Eames hadn't been together more than a month, but Arthur already knew how he preferred his tea, or coffee on the occasions he drank that, and how he liked his toast, or any of a dozen other such things. But maybe that was as much to do with the fact that he simply paid attention to things related to food and drink, as much as it was anything else. And he'd always had a fairly decent eye for detail, anyway.

"Not exactly what I'd call a full breakfast, but better than simply a continental one," Eames said as he set both plates onto the table of the breakfast nook, which was seeing more use in the last two or three weeks than it probably had in the last year.

They had been spending a good chunk of the break together, and ended up here much more often than at Arthur's apartment. It was more of a drive to most of the places they went out, but it was hard to argue that his apartment was just as good, and Arthur actually preferred it here. He'd originally come by under the guise of using the kitchen for his baking projects, at Eames's invitation, but they'd soon stopped that charade. Both kitchens in this place beat out the tiny little one in his apartment, but it was much more about the company on top of the luxury of space, though they had not openly acknowledged it.

"Does a full breakfast include blood sausage?" Arthur asked, bringing over fresh cups of coffee and tea after locating everything he needed. He was, oddly enough, more comfortable in the big industrial-style kitchen this house boasted than in this somewhat smaller and more normal one. This was the one Eames rarely used, as it was further from the living room, and sometimes it still felt sterile and formal, like a room in a model home, whereas the other one felt like it was actually used and appreciated.

"Sometimes."

"...Yeah, that's something I think I'll take a pass on, then," he said, sliding onto the bench opposite Eames. There were windows wrapping around the nook, giving a clear view of one of the gardens. It was probably an amazing little view during the spring and summer, but on an overcast day in the middle of winter, all Arthur really saw was grey sky, some rose bushes without flowers, and a birdbath without any birds.

Eames stopped with his tea halfway to his lips. "Have you ever even tried it?"

Arthur made a face. "Can't even think about it too long without shuddering."

With a small, exasperated huff, Eames shook his head and took a sip of his tea. "And yet you're the one who was telling me I ought to give rice with squid ink a try."

"It's good!" Arthur insisted, piercing one of his egg yolks with his toast. "I know you like seafood, and it's basically just like a seafood paella, only black." He looked up to see Eames's wrinkled nose and skeptical expression. "Okay, we'll agree to disagree, here. I won't force you to try _arròs negre_ , and I get away without having to consume blood sausage or black pudding, or any other name you call it. Deal?"

Eames nodded. "Deal. We'll consider that part of our Christmas presents to each other--a free pass on consuming a few select foods we find disgusting."

Arthur grinned a little, reaching for his coffee and settling in. "Culinary students, huh?"

There wasn't a huge difference, Arthur realized later, between not really doing anything at home, versus not really doing anything here, but the feel of it was entirely different. At home, he'd still have made food, and baked, and prepared dinner, and lounged on the couch, but doing it here, with Eames, made it automatically better.

Even if Eames kept revealing information that made Arthur gape like fish.

"You're kidding. You've really never seen it?"

Eames's raised eyebrows and crooked grin were almost enough to make Arthur forget his incredulousness. "Never," he confirmed.

"And you've lived in the U.S. _how_ long now?"

"Five years, this coming May."

"Okay, so how have you managed not to see _It's a Wonderful Life_?"

Eames shrugged and lounged a little further back on the couch. "I just haven't. Some of that can be explained by working weekends and evenings, and some of that simply because I don't always watch the telly. It's easier to pop in a DVD, or just enjoy being somewhere that's not home or work."

Arthur sighed. "All right. What about _Miracle on Thirty-Fourth Street_ , or _A Christmas Story_ , or even _National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation_?"

Eames hesitated, then grinned sheepishly. "None of those, though I have seen most of the claymation Rudolph."

"Most of? Please, tell me you've at least seen the sixties version of _How the Grinch Stole Christmas_. Boris Karloff was from London!"

"Afraid not."

"Oh my God, you're killing me," Arthur moaned miserably. "This is worse than Ariadne's cluelessness over music."

"All this obsession with Christmas specials," Eames sighed. "But I bet you've never seen _Max Headroom's Giant Christmas Turkey_ , _A Non-Denominational Spitting Image Holiday Special_ , or _Postman Pat Goes Sledging_."

"...No."

"See, just a simple matter of cultural differences. If I were anti-Christmas, I'd not have prime rib in the oven as we speak, nor a package wrapped in paper and a bow waiting for later."

"You've got a wrapped package for later?" Arthur asked. They'd had a brief--very brief, actually--discussion about not buying presents, as it was so early in their relationship. That Arthur had disregarded their discussion when he'd seen something for Eames in Williams-Sonoma last week wasn't really the point.

"Yes. And if I'm not mistaken, given that look on your face, I'm not the only one." Eames reached up and hooked his index finger through one of Arthur's belt loops. "But I've also got a package you can have right now," he said, tugging until Arthur was kneeling on the couch, one of Eames's legs between his knees. The playful, teasing look on his face made Arthur flush warm, and he sank down until he was straddling Eames's thigh, bringing them face-to-face as Eames leaned forward a little bit. "Have you got one for me?" he whispered against Arthur's mouth before kissing him lightly and moving on.

"That was _terrible_ ," Arthur groaned, his breath hitching just a little when Eames's teeth grazed his earlobe.

"Perhaps, but I didn't hear a 'no' just now." Eames nosed at the spot just behind Arthur's ear, working his way down until his mouth found the pulse-point on Arthur's neck. He gave a little lick, sending an electric thrill through Arthur's entire body and making his dick twitch interestedly from within his jeans. "It may not be tied with ribbon, but I'd still like to unwrap it."

"Only you," Arthur murmured as he slid his hands up Eames's shirt, flattening his palms against Eames's chest, "only you could say such amazingly cheesy things and make puns like that and _still_ make me want to get you naked."

"Is that what you want?"

Arthur leaned back enough to look Eames in the eye. "It's not fair if you get to unwrap a package now and I have to wait," he said, barely believing he was actually uttering such ridiculousness, let alone that he was getting hard while doing so.

"Now that's what I like to hear," Eames breathed, shifting Arthur with him until Eames was flat on his back and Arthur was straddling him, pinning him down as he sat just above his groin. Eames reached out with both hands and popped the button on Arthur's jeans, smirking widely as he looked up into Arthur's face. "Opening presents might be my favorite part of Christmas this year. This one, at least."

Arthur meant to make some comment to that, but his brain lost its ability to continue contemplating wordplay the moment Eames pulled the zipper down and stroked Arthur's cock through his underwear.

There were no more puns after that.

"Do you hear something?" Eames gasped perhaps ten minutes later, the last word choked off a little when Arthur bit at his nipple. It hadn't taken an exceptionally long time for Arthur to figure out that particular button, and Arthur loved the fact that he was still learning more of them, every time.

"Hear what?" Arthur murmured against Eames's collarbone, his tongue flicking out and earning a satisfying shudder. He wasn't really feeling the whole random conversation thing, but the _last_ time Eames had said something along those lines as they were fooling around, they'd looked up to see the hired housekeeper's shocked face just before she turned on her heel and occupied herself in a different room.

Since then, Arthur felt a little less predisposed to ignoring such questions. Also since then, the housekeeper made it a point to let Eames know the exact time she would be arriving for the next appointment, whether it was just to dust in the unused rooms, or tend the houseplants, or any other thing Eames's friend had hired her to keep up with a few times a month.

"Never mind," Eames said, his fingers digging into Arthur's hip. "It's probably just the ringing in my ears that's indicating I might have a stroke if we don't--"

"No, wait," Arthur interrupted. "I think I hear it. Buzzing?" He made a conscious effort to stop moving and just listen for a second. Beneath him, Eames seemed to do the same.

It hit them both at once. "Oven timer," Eames said at the same time Arthur groaned, "Shit, the rolls."

Arthur had a very brief moment in which he actually considered just letting the thing buzz until he and Eames were done, before the part of his brain that wasn't entirely incapacitated by hormones asserted itself. With another groan, he climbed off of Eames, trying to step into his jeans as he headed for the kitchen without falling over and breaking his neck. Opening an oven shirtless was one thing, but opening one with a particularly sensitive bit of himself completely exposed was just asking for it.

"No homemade bread tonight," Arthur said as Eames wandered into the kitchen a few moments later. He tapped at the top of one of the rolls, which was hard and about five shades darker than it should be. Not charcoal, but far from the soft, edible roll the recipe usually yielded.

Eames stepped up behind him as Arthur put the pan on top of the burners and dropped the oven mitt onto the counter. "I think we'll live," he murmured into Arthur's ear, and Arthur shivered just a little when Eames's hands slid over his hips to meet at his navel. "We still have the rest of the meal, plus the pudding you made last night."

"Assuming that turned out," Arthur reminded him. "Traditional plum pudding isn't something I've ever even _had_ before, let alone made from a recipe online, having to convert grams and milliliters to ounces. Not really an American thing." He _still_ had a hard time thinking of anything other than Jell-o brand whenever Eames said the word "pudding." God, he was screwed if he ever tried to get a baking position in the UK.

"Well, given that you wouldn't even let me peek at it last night, we'll find out later." Arthur leaned his back up against Eames's chest when the grip around his waist tightened just a little, letting his head fall back when Eames nosed at the spot just behind his ear. "We've got another twenty minutes before the timer on the other oven goes off, if you'd like to open another package."

"Do you mean you're still ready to go, or are you talking literal wrapping paper?"

Eames huffed a soft laugh in his ear. "I meant the physical present I have wrapped and sitting upstairs, but we could perhaps give the other thing a go."

Arthur turned around to face Eames, who was grinning at him in a way that usually made Arthur want to completely claim his mouth and mark it as his. "Let's wait on that until after dinner, when we're absolutely sure there aren't any buzzers waiting to go off." He leaned forward and tugged just slightly at Eames's lower lip. "I want to make sure we have _plenty_ of time for that later."

"You do, do you?"

"Yeah."

"Then that might just be my favorite Christmas present of all." He ran his thumb over the crest of Arthur's hipbone. "Unless whatever else you've got for me is from Sur La Table or Williams-Sonoma." Arthur's face must have betrayed something, because Eames's eyes went wide. "You didn't."

Arthur grinned in spite of himself. "Come on then." Eames looked, quite appropriately, like nothing so much as a big kid on Christmas. "Let's go open them. Just don't be too disappointed if it's not as big a package as you were expecting."

Eames snickered into Arthur's neck before giving him a little nudge to get him headed upstairs. "Oh, Arthur. Don't underestimate yourself on that one."


	2. Chapter 2

There were few things Eames took such absolute, shameless amusement in so much as getting to see Arthur uninhibited--or his personal version of it, anyway. Arthur's 'uninhibited' was most people's 'slightly relaxed.' And it was definitely a phenomenon more likely to manifest when they were somewhere private, with no one but the two of them there to witness the occasion.

So to be standing in a crowded pub, twenty minutes before they ushered out the current year in favor of the next, and Arthur so close that his right side was pressed against Eames's left with absolutely no regard for what anyone else might think, was quite a lovely thing.

Even more so, when Arthur's right hand casually rose up and played with the hair at the nape of Eames's neck. Arthur neither gave him a furtive glance, nor went self-consciously tense, and it was as much the seemingly automatic, oblivious nature of the gesture as it was the intimacy it demonstrated that made Eames just want to wrap Arthur up in his arms and kiss him in front of everyone.

"You seem to be feeling a bit friendly this evening," Eames said into Arthur's ear. With all the noise in this place, even using his normal speaking volume at this close range meant only Arthur could hear him.

Arthur's fingers continued to play with Eames's hair, his thumb stroking at the base of his skull in a way that soothed the noise-induced headache that was building. Eames had had a few drinks this evening already, and that normally staved off just that sort of thing, or at least his notice of such. Not so, tonight. "Maybe."

"Not that I'm complaining, mind you," Eames was quick to clarify. "I do so enjoy these small signs of affection."

"Yeah?" Arthur murmured, quiet enough that Eames lip-read it more than he heard it. Even with the din all around, Eames knew well enough from Arthur's expression that, under the influence or not, Arthur was aware of this fact.

"Absolutely."

Arthur hummed a response, shifting just a little as he took another drink from his bottle of beer. There were people in this pub who were so amazingly drunk that they'd had to deal with being fallen into, or bumped against, or stepped on, and Eames had unfortunately even seen one person vomit into the booth he and his friends were sharing before being escorted out, and it made him quite glad that this year, he wasn't working in a place that had to cater to all the drunks.

It also made him glad that the group of people he was spending the evening with were not simply looking to get well and truly shitfaced. There was drinking, to be sure, but generally of the purely social sort. He and Arthur had been considerably more drunk than this the night they'd remained at Eternal after Ariadne had gone. In fact, "considerably more drunk" was probably a vast understatement. Eames still wasn't entirely sure how they'd managed to pay their tab, get into a taxi cab, and give the fellow the correct addresses without some sort of incident. He hadn't been that drunk in nearly three years, and that had been after a particularly ugly breakup and firing, which had occurred simultaneously.

"D'you think that guy's going to make his move at midnight?" Arthur murmured in Eames's ear a few minutes later, gesturing ever-so-slightly to the bloke Ariadne had been spending more than half the night speaking with.

Eames angled himself so that he could get a better look without being too obvious. Arthur was right, of course. Their interactions looked like something one would find outlined in any of hundreds of 'how to flirt effectively' magazine or internet articles. Not that Eames made a habit of reading such things....Though he had been amused to note how many people had to be instructed to use techniques that were part of Eames's everyday behavior set. Much of flirting was simply being fully engaged and friendly, and Eames found those things very natural. And every time he thought that it was the same for everyone else, he had only to think of Arthur, and the first few months they had known each other, and realize that was not the case.

"If he doesn't, I'll eat my left shoe," Eames replied, grinning. "Or if she doesn't just yank him down by the collar and tell him to his face he's got a shot."

"Wouldn't put it past her," Arthur laughed as he handed over his now-empty bottle to the waitress who'd come around seeking such before the round of champagne came though.

Eames gave her his as well, though it was still two-thirds full. "Especially not after that stunt she pulled the last time the three of us were out in a place like this."

"What, you mean smacking both of our asses and doing us the favor of getting rid of those women who were out for fresh meat?"

"Precisely."

"Yeah, getting my ass violated wasn't on my list of plans that night," Arthur said, and then he smirked. "Might be on my list tonight. If you're interested."

Eames might have choked on his drink, if he'd had one. Instead, he gave Arthur a long look. "Just how much have you had to drink?" he asked slowly.

"Not nearly as much as that last comment might suggest."

"Then who are you, and what have you done with Arthur?"

Arthur elbowed him lightly in the side. "Maybe I'm trying out some potential new year's resolutions."

"Being lewd in public is a resolution that's up for review?"

"No."

Pity, that could have been interesting. "Then what sort of resolutions are you considering?"

"Not telling."

Eames raised his eyebrows. "They're not birthday wishes, Arthur. It's not as if they won't come true if you tell."

Arthur gave him a sarcastic little glare, much more the Arthur he knew, though there was a fondness underneath that softened it. Interestingly, that particular expression was one of Eames's favorites.

It was cut short when Miranda--Ariadne's roommate, whom Eames had spoken to a small handful of times within the last few months--stumbled into Arthur, somehow managing to insert herself between them. All fondness left Arthur's face as the girl tugged on Eames's sleeve.

"Hey, I wanted to ask you--you have any recommendations for good places to eat in London?" Miranda asked, her words slightly slurred. "'Cause I'm going there over the summer, and I figure, I've gotta eat, and you'd know, right, 'cause you're one of Ariadne's culinary school friends, and you're from London."

"Manchester," Eames corrected, though he had lived in East London for a bit while working there.

"Same thing."

Eames hoped desperately that Miranda's comment was a result of the excess imbibing she'd done tonight, and not due to a complete lack of geographical comprehension, or worse. "Not quite."

"Well, are there any good places?"

It wasn't as if London was void of quality eating establishments, but this was hardly the time for that discussion. "Why don't I mull it over and get a list for you to Ariadne later?"

"Awesome! Yeah, great. Thanks!" She beamed up at Eames, who was trying to remember if any of his other brief conversations with this girl had made him want to hit his head against a wall in quite the same way.

"Hey, Miranda," Ariadne cut in before her roommate said anything else that made Eames want to grab the nearest bit of alcohol and tip it back. "Jordan's here. I think he's looking for you." As Miranda wandered off in search of the elusive Jordan, Ariadne sighed and leaned just a little into Arthur so that their arms touched. "Sorry. She's...." Ariadne flapped a hand, a gesture which Eames figured encompassed about a dozen potential adjectives.

"Yeah," Arthur replied, rolling his eyes. "Got it."

"You two doing anything fun over here, before she interrupted?"

"Just chatting," Eames said, snagging a plastic flute of champagne from the offered tray as another server walked past. Arthur, Ariadne, and Ariadne's apparent love interest--Jim or Tim, Eames couldn't remember which--took one as well. "Just in time."

"Four minutes till the ball drop," Ariadne noted, pointing at one of the large screens behind the bar, which was showing the recording of the gathering in Times Square three hours earlier.

"It's not the same without Dick Clark," Arthur said wistfully, and then he seemed to really look at the drink in his hand. "...There's no way this is actual champagne."

Ariadne laughed and elbowed him. "You are such a wine snob, I swear."

"I am not."

"Fine, then you're a snob in general."

"That's not true! I just--"

"He just has exacting tastes," Eames finished over Arthur.

With a snort, Ariadne smirked. "Yeah? Then how'd he fall for you?"

"My abundance of utter charm, sparkling personality, and striking good looks," Eames grinned.

"No idea," Arthur said at the same time, completely deadpan in his delivery and earning a laugh from Ariadne's friend.

Eames shot him a mock-wounded look, and Arthur just shrugged, though he moved closer, closing the distance Miranda had wedged between them. "So that's how it is, is it?" Eames asked, affecting a pout.

"Nah. I still maintain it was a combination of your cologne and stubborn persistence," Arthur murmured into his ear as Ariadne bent her head to look at something on the screen of her friend's phone. "And maybe a little bit of you and Ariadne scheming together."

"Ah, I see." Eames watched as, across the room, a small scuffle broke out, quickly halted by three employees with shirts clearly labeling them as security dragging out a couple of patrons. "See, it's things like that right there that make me glad I don't have to work over the break this year."

"You worked last year? At that Indian place?"

"Yes and no. I've worked most New Year's Eves, for various pubs and restaurants, and even in a casino a few years back, but Tamarind Bay closed at nine. I was supposed to go out with some friends after my shift."

"You were supposed to?"

Eames shrugged. "Went home to shower and change, so I didn't smell like curry and sweat, and fell asleep on my sofa, still in my towel. Didn't wake until after seven the next morning."

Arthur shook his head. "I think I'd have rather been asleep last year."

"Oh? And where were you? Out with some marginally handsome, exceptionally humorless date?"

"Hardly. Just at the house of someone I worked with at the time, trying to convince her sister that I wasn't that interested in sharing a New Year's kiss. Got thrown up on, for my troubles."

Eames winced. "Well, I promise not to get sick on you, if you rebuff me."

Arthur raised his eyebrows. "I think the chances of that happening are pretty damn nonexistent," he said, the end of his last word drowned out by the rest of the bar shouting _ten_ and beginning the countdown.

Eames pulled Arthur in for a kiss as the crowd reached the end of their counting, not even bothering to shout 'happy new year' along with them. It was nice to have this, to have Arthur, who was so much unlike the sort of person Eames usually found himself fancying, so much more steady and sure and serious. It had only been a month since they had really come together, but it already felt as if this was something serious, something worth the effort he'd given in going after Arthur in the first place.

Arthur opened his mouth to say something, then got distracted by something nearby. Following Arthur's line of sight, Eames turned his head to see Ariadne and her friend pulling away from what looked like an awkward first kiss. Arthur quickly turned away once she caught them looking, but Eames could only waggle his eyebrows. "Happy new year, hm, love?" he asked with a grin.

"Oh, shut up," she muttered, flushing scarlet and reaching out for a hug. "God, I should have known you'd see that."

Eames gave her a quick peck on the cheek. "Yes, you most certainly should have," he said cheerily. "Especially as we'd been wondering all evening if he was going to make his move."

"Oh my God, both you _and_ Arthur noticed?" she groaned quietly, kissing his cheek in kind.

Eames could only laugh as Arthur whispered something into her ear as he leaned in and gave her a friendly hug and forehead-kiss, whatever he'd said causing her to go wide-eyed. "I hate you both," she said, sighing hugely. But then she raised her champagne up and toasted them both, the muted click of the plastic rims completely inaudible over those still shouting and carrying on. "I mean, I love you, and happy new year," she said as her friend returned from snagging a handful of napkins for the champagne someone seemed to have spilled all over his side.

"They could be kind of cute together, I suppose," Eames mused as he watched Ariadne laughingly help her friend dry off.

"I guess," Arthur said, making a face and looking for a place to put his still-nearly-full drink down. "Yeah, there is no way that's drinkable."

Eames rolled his eyes affectionately, though his assessment of the drink's palatability wasn't much different. "She's right, you know--you are awfully picky about certain things."

Arthur looked at him, a small smile replacing the grimace. "Okay, maybe I am. But that's only because I don't like wasting time and energy on things that aren't worth it, when there are better options out there."

"Is that so?"

"Yeah." Arthur leaned in, dipping his head so that his mouth just brushed Eames's ear. "But you? Definitely worth it."

Eames pulled back and just looked at Arthur, blinking. But before he could say anything, Arthur reached up and pulled him in by the shirt, kissing him slowly and so deeply that Eames actually felt himself shiver.

This new year definitely held a lot of promise.


	3. Chapter 3

School was one thing, but Arthur had to admit that he itched to get into an actual kitchen somewhere and _work_.

It might help explain the small pad of notes tucked into his pocket as he walked out of the internship and employment office of Pacifica Culinary Institute. He'd jotted down virtually everything that was said that hadn't been on the handouts provided, along with any thoughts he'd had regarding places he'd seen or heard of on his own that might take on an intern.

His phone rang as he slid into his car, and he glanced at the caller ID. After a moment of debate, he answered, hand holding his keys dropping into his lap. "Hello?"

"Hey, long time no talk, man," was the reply from the other end. "Was beginning to wonder if you'd dropped off the face of the earth or something."

"Nope, still around," Arthur confirmed. "How are you, Brant?"

"Actually, kind of surprised you picked up," his old coworker laughed. "Figured you'd deleted everyone you knew from your old life once you quit and decided to start over. But if you picked up, that means you still have my number. So why no call, man?"

Arthur tried not to sigh aloud. "I've been busy, I guess. School and everything, you know?"

"Not really. That's kind of my point. No one hears from you. I was talking to Jenna the other day, and she asked how you were. Figured you and I would be in contact, I guess. Hey, did you get the invite to her and Rob's wedding, by the way? Up in San Francisco?"

"Yesterday." Arthur let his head fall back against the headrest. He'd opened it up, intending to file it so he could at least remember the date later, in order to send some sort of gift. He'd always gotten along well with Jenna, and Rob was a good guy, even if Arthur still had trouble wrapping his head around them as a couple.

"You going?"

"I don't know. It's during the semester, and I'm not sure what my workload will be like at that point yet."

"Ah, right, school probably starts again in what, a week or two? My brother just went back to Michigan this morning, 'cause he's got class on Monday."

"Yeah, me too."

"So I caught you during a lull, huh?"

"Something like that."

"Well, you doing anything? I mean, today? I've took a vacation day so I could take my brother to the airport, but that's already done. What would you say to coffee or lunch or something?"

Arthur glanced at his watch. It was only ten. He'd chosen the earliest internship information seminar so he'd have the rest of the day to brainstorm places he wanted to interview and check them out either online or in person. He had plenty of time free. "Yeah, I could do coffee."

"Excellent! I was thinking just a Starbucks or something, unless you had another place in mind?"

"Do you still live in Culver City?"

"Yeah."

"I'll head your way, then. Just text me the address or something. There've got to be a dozen locations out there. I should be close in fifteen. Thirty, if traffic hasn't thinned out yet."

"Great, man. Yeah, I'll get you the address as soon as we hang up."

"All right. See you soon."

Arthur hung up and rubbed a hand over his face, putting the keys in the ignition and starting up the car. He hadn't seen Brant--or anyone else he used to work with--since his last day of work at Croft Brown Davies, back in August. He hadn't been actively avoiding them so much as just...not making an effort to connect. Most of them were nice enough people, and he'd hung out with a few of them at the end of the work day at one of the bars nearby, or even met for lunch or a Lakers game over the weekend, so it wasn't as if he _disliked_ them, as an overall group of people.

Honestly, it wasn't as if Arthur minded the fact that he didn't have a hardcore "best friend" in his life right now. He hadn't really had one since middle school. Friends, yes, and later even just sort of acquaintances. The arrangement had never bothered him. He wasn't that sort of person.

And now that he thought about it, maybe that had more to do with the fact that he'd just never really been around people who shared the same sorts of passions. Because, in addition to Eames--who was an anomaly in Arthur's life in a number of ways, a definite outlier in the data set--there was Ariadne. Arthur had never had any siblings, and Ariadne was quickly becoming almost like a sister, in addition to a good friend. There were a few other people in his classes he would occasionally talk to, but it was undoubtedly Eames and Ariadne he connected with most.

It took Arthur a moment to recognize Brant when he walked into the coffee shop, and it had little to do with the abrupt switch from the bright sunlight outside to the relative darkness of the building. Last time Arthur had seen him, Brant had had shaggy blond hair, Harry Potter-style glasses, and a full beard. The guy who called his name when he walked in was clean-shaven, with dark hair cropped close, and only sunglasses resting atop his head.

"Holy shit, that's a surprise," Arthur said with a little bit of a laugh as he reached out to shake Brant's hand. "You look completely different."

"I know, right? Almost told you on the phone, but thought it'd be more fun to see your face. Go on, order. I grabbed us a table in the corner."

"So what inspired the change?" Arthur asked as he sat down with his drink.

"Girlfriend dumped me."

"Who, Carolyn? That sucks." He supposed it did, anyway. Arthur had really only met her a couple of times.

"Nah. I mean, yeah, it did, but it was better in the long run. She was starting to get really weird. Freaked out about me and Jenna hanging out, even though Rob was with us, and she knew they were together. Told me she didn't want me working with her anymore. Screamed it, actually. Think I dodged a bullet."

Arthur raised his eyebrows. "Yeah, sounds like."

"It's all good, though. I have a new girlfriend, and she's not a psycho. She's got a kid, but he's the coolest kid ever. It's weird, though--it's like I never knew I wanted it, or even _could_ want it till I got it. That sounds crazy, though, right?"

"Not that crazy. I think I know what you mean on that one." That described his relationship with Eames well enough, didn't it? He was so far away from what Arthur would have said he wanted just a few months ago, there was no way he could have foreseen them in a relationship of any sort, or even friendship. But now that he had this thing of theirs--and had realized how he'd almost lost it so soon, before it got really good, because he'd been an idiot--he was determined not to do anything that might make him lose it.

"So, let's catch up. I can fill you in on everyone at work, and you tell me what's going on with you. You're in school for...I forget what, sorry."

"Culinary arts."

"Right, right. You did always bring in the best shit to the office potlucks. So, fill me in. What's going on in the life of Arthur?"

Arthur hesitated for a brief moment before he started, not sure where to begin, or what to include. Brant nodded here and there, occasionally asking a follow-up question, before Arthur flipped the conversation around, asking about the others from the office. He listened, laughed at some of Brant's jokes, and silently acknowledged the voice in the back of his head that said this was no longer his life. It filled him with--with _relief_.

"Damn, it's been almost two hours," Brant said after another story about Arthur's old direct supervisor. "I should get going. I was going to go get my girl some flowers and surprise her at her job for lunch."

"Wow, Brant Keeler buying a girl flowers? You _have_ changed," Arthur said, eyebrows raised.

"Yeah, it happens. People don't always stay the same. Sometimes they let you down, but sometimes, they surprise you in the other direction. Boring is the man who is always the same, Arthur." He stood up when Arthur did, following him out the front door.

"Good seeing you, Brant," Arthur said, offering his hand.

Brant scoffed. "Forget the shake. Bro-hug or nothing, man. I haven't changed that much."

"Right." He'd actually forgotten about Brad's propensity for those.

"Some things never change, Arthur. You ever plan on being a lazy, unwashed slacker, who doesn't give a fuck about the details?"

"Yeah, right."

"My point exactly."

Brant gave him the customary Bro-Hug of Manly Affection (always in title case, Arthur remembered now) and let him go, reminding him he didn't have to be a stranger just because they no longer worked together, then gave a last wave as Arthur backed out of his parking spot.

As he drove home, Arthur couldn't help but think that he was now even more certain getting out of his old career had been so much more than worth it, and not just because he was finally working with food and sugar, like he'd always secretly wanted.


	4. Chapter 4

Eames knew, deep down, that these first two weeks of the term were simply the calm before the storm. But that didn't stop him from thinking that it wasn't so bad to be busy with his courses. After all, he still had some free time with Arthur. And because they shared more than one course, he was at least guaranteed to see him, if only briefly, a few days per week.

Really, Eames was enjoying the relative freedom that provided, though it would likely change somewhat once they were placed into internships. Arthur, however, seemed to be happiest when he had structure. Therefore, Arthur's logic seemed to dictate that with more structure to his schedule, more happiness would follow.

Eames wasn't exactly certain about that one.

"Are you _positive_ a fifth course is a good idea, on top of the internship?" he murmured as Dom Cobb began to hand out copies of the syllabus for American Regional Cuisine.

On Arthur's other side, Ariadne stopped fiddling with her pen. "Oh, for the love of..." she said, rolling her eyes. " _Please_ , Arthur, tell me he's kidding."

"Not even remotely joking," Eames replied before Arthur could say anything. He looked up to see Chef Cobb still halfway across the room, paying them no attention. "He was looking at the course catalog before you arrived."

"You're crazy," Ariadne said flatly. "No one in their right mind would add another class to a full schedule, especially since you don't even know what sort of hours you'll be working in your internship yet."

"I'm not crazy," Arthur insisted, ducking his head when Chef Cobb's head briefly turned in their direction.

"You are if you add another class this semester."

Arthur sighed harshly and slouched in his chair. It didn't look right on him, the slouch, and Eames tried to hide the flicker of amusement when he realized this was perhaps the tiniest of temper tantrums. "I'm not adding another class this semester, okay?"

"Oh, suddenly come to your senses?" Ariadne asked, looking relieved.

Eames considered Arthur's sulky position for just a moment. "You can't find something you like that fits into your current timetable, can you?"

"Shut up, both of you," Arthur grumbled, taking a syllabus from the stack as they came down their row and handing the rest over to Eames.

Eames waited just a moment, until Cobb had moved on a few rows down. "You know," he whispered as quietly as possible with Arthur still able to hear him, "of the vast number of qualities you possess, your dedication and intensity are two of my favorite qualities." He scooted over in his seat just a little, but it was enough so that he could slide his hand over to rest on Arthur's leg and give it a light squeeze. "Really."

Arthur didn't say anything as Cobb began to address the class as a whole--didn't even glance at him--but Eames grinned when fingers closed around his and squeezed back. And he definitely didn't miss the way Arthur's furrowed brow smoothed and his posture improved, just a little.


	5. Chapter 5

It had been a few years since the last time Arthur had interviewed for a job. This might be an internship instead of a paying gig, but that didn't make it any less of a pain in Arthur's ass. Especially not when some of his interviewers seemed intent on asking some of the stupidest, most irrelevant questions possible.

When the owner of Sweet's Treats asked Arthur what kind of sprinkle or other cupcake decoration he'd be, he'd tried to come up with an answer without making a face or rolling his eyes. It was, technically, a question somewhat related to the field in question. But when, two questions later, he was asked what he'd do if a penguin in a fireman's jacket and cowboy boots walked into his kitchen, all Arthur could really come up with was an automatic, instinctive "I wouldn't figure a penguin could _wear_ cowboy boots, given the shape of the footwear and the lack of ankle and shin-length a penguin has to cover," and knowing that answer wasn't showing off whatever quality he was hoped to demonstrate.

He was pretty sure he might not be the kind of candidate Sweet's Treats was looking for.

At least most of the places who'd given him an interview after going through his internship application asked questions Arthur could easily understand. He was good at thinking on his feet--provided the scenario thrown at him was even _remotely_ a possibility. If they were trying to test his reaction to the unexpected, well...unexpected, he could do. He'd dealt with unexpected. He'd dealt with unexpected and potentially disastrous, even. Penguins walking into a kitchen in fireman's jackets and anatomically improbable-if-not-impossible footwear...well, that was something else entirely.

The problem Arthur was finding, however, was that so many places asked questions he'd expected--but he hadn't foreseen how difficult it was to translate experiences from his previous career into this one. At least those were sparse and, because this was only an internship, and he wasn't looking to _run_ a kitchen somewhere, most seemingly competent interviewers seemed to focus on what he could offer _now_. Thankfully, he had abundant opportunities to sell his attention to detail as an asset.

Of the eight applications he'd turned in, seven had offered interviews, including his last one at Sweet's Treats. Hopefully, one of those would pan out. Otherwise, he had a week to do another round of applications, or settle for a lack of internship this semester. And grades be damned, if he wasn't able to score an internship out of this attempt, and both Eames and Ariadne _were_ , Arthur was going to have a bit of difficulty soothing his ego and any mostly-hidden doubts about the career change.

 _how'd today's interviews go?_ Arthur's phone displayed as he sat down to dinner and TV later that night. He took a bite of his pasta and tried to figure out how to respond to Ariadne.

 _Fine._ After a moment, he elaborated. _Got asked some stupid questions I'm pretty sure took me out of the running for one. But I liked the French bakery._ He suddenly remembered that she'd had one scheduled for this afternoon. _Yours?_

 _no stupid questions in mine. kind of would've liked some,_ came the response, followed by _think i found a few new places to buy shit from, at least_ and then _most of mine are tomorrow, like eames. all the ones i really want, anyway. any you REALLY want yet, besides the french place?_

Arthur thought about it. There weren't, really. He'd interviewed at a hotel downtown, mostly because he knew Eames had an interview scheduled there, and he liked the idea of being able to be in the same kitchen with him, even if they were doing different kinds of work. It had gone well enough, though there had been over twenty people waiting for their chance to interview during the four-hour block he went in, which had to mean they'd had a hundred or more applicants overall. There were a couple of other places that he'd liked--though one of them, Arthur was unfortunately aware, didn't seem all that interested in him. He hadn't bombed the interview or anything, so much as he just didn't seem to click with the interviewer.

 _Not really,_ was his eventual reply. _But there weren't any places I had my heart set on, this semester._ If anything, Arthur had reasoned when choosing places to apply, those should be saved for his last semester, in the hopes that he landed his dream internship and could work it into an actual job immediately after graduation.

 _ah, okay,_ Ariadne replied almost two hours later, as Arthur was sprawled on his couch with his textbook from Pastry Techniques and Artistry propped open on his knee. He kept skimming over the section on _pâte à choux_ and telling himself he ought to wait for them to go over it in class before he tried it at home, but he was having a hard time listening, even to himself. _well, keep your fingers crossed for me tomorrow that sweetest dreams or sugar-spun or SOMEONE likes me, even if it's just the hilton. i'll keep mine crossed for you. and eames. one hand for each._

 _I'm sure you'll be fantastic. Just go in there with the attitude that they'd be lucky to have you. Because they would be._ Ariadne's next response was simply an emoticon that Arthur took to mean she was appreciative of his support.

After another hour of skimming through text books, mostly to look ahead to recipes they might be learning in class and comparing listed ingredients and other materials to other things already sitting in his kitchen, Arthur gave up and went to bed, but not without a quick goodnight text to Eames. They'd spent a lot of the three-week break together, but Arthur _definitely_ didn't want Eames to get sick of him and his habits, no matter if there were nights here and there where he wondered if Eames would mind company. There was a reason he didn't have a roommate anymore, even if it did mean he had to pay a little more each month, and his savings dipped just slightly more than he'd originally planned when he'd sketched out the logistics of quitting his job and going back to school. Arthur knew that he had a lot of set habits and preferences and, honestly, he was still kind of surprised someone like Eames--someone so easy-going and funny and relaxed about a lot of things--was willing to put up with it.

Eames'd probably be willing to put up with it a lot longer if he had some Arthur-free time. And, Arthur thought to himself with a rueful smile as he climbed into bed, he himself would probably get a lot more school work done alone at home than somewhere where he had access to Eames all night long, every night.


	6. Chapter 6

Eames knew he was supposed to be taking these internship interviews seriously, but he'd met so many restaurant owners and kitchen managers over the last ten or so years that he found it hard to get himself worked up over such a thing. To him, they were really more of a formality, and he typically saved any anxiety he might have for a _stage_ , if it was offered, trying to work it into useable energy.

Ariadne was quite obviously not as blase about these things. Eames rather wondered if she might be in danger of being sick.

"You know, love, the interviewer will like you much better if you don't vomit on his desk," he murmured as they sat in the large waiting area the Hilton had set aside for the purposes of mass-interviewing interns. There were probably fifty people in here at the moment, and he guessed that another twenty or so had already gone. He recognized a small handful of classmates scattered throughout the crowd, and two other blokes he knew from kitchens around Los Angeles--one of whom he knew had just started at the Cordon Bleu school across town.

Ariadne looked pitifully up at him, looking pale and terrified. "You think I'd be the first person to throw up at an interview here?"

"Not necessarily. I bet you there are at least a hundred others who've worried that same thing." He glanced at another potential intern several yards to their right, who was sitting with his head essentially between his knees, obviously trying to get himself under control. "See?" he said, gesturing just a little.

Glancing over, Ariadne caught sight of the boy in question, who looked almost like a taller, frailer version of Chef Fischer. "Yeah, okay," she said slowly, finally forcing her shoulders down a little and taking a very deep breath. "I'm not the only one freaking out. This is an important thing, but it's not the end of the world. This isn't even the place I want to work most. I can totally do this. It's a huge room full of people, but not every person in this room is judging me."

"Most of them are too busy trying to think through potential interview questions and the answers that might make them look good to even notice anyone else exists beyond themselves and these dozen interviewers," Eames assured her. He scooted a little and rubbed small circles between her shoulder blades until she looked a little more like her usual self.

Ariadne opened her mouth to say something else, but the sound of someone at one of the interview tables calling her name interrupted her, and Eames saw her stiffen. "Hey," he whispered as she gathered her purse and small folio. "I'll be here in this room the whole time. You'll be fine, love. Just show them how fantastic you are, and they'll adore you."

Relaxing visibly, she managed a smile as she stood. "You and Arthur, I swear."

Eames gave her a little wink, though she didn't know what she meant about Arthur specifically. He watched her walk across the room, sit, and shake the interviewer's hand before his own name was being called from the opposite side of the room. He knew Ariadne was hoping to get one of the pastry artist slots, but he'd put his name down under the breakfast and brunch service header. It wasn't his strongest skill set, but it had two distinct advantages. Such a position would only help him improve his technique, and he had heard more than once that a _good_ breakfast cook was worth his weight in gold, for starters. And to make things better, the position not only would fit in with his timetable this semester, but it would likely dovetail with anything Arthur got, as he'd applied almost entirely for positions in bakeries, which were almost guaranteed to be looking for morning help.

Early morning wasn't his naturally _preferred_ time of day, but Eames could make a sacrifice here and there, especially if it meant he and Arthur might have more time to spend together.

The person conducting his interview was a slimly-built, rather severe-looking fellow who shot questions like a bloke used to calling back rapid orders from the pass, and Eames appreciated that. It meant that those doing the interviews had more than a passing acquaintance with the kitchens they were looking to staff. He answered each question easily, letting his experience show in his answers, rather than wasting time by calling attention to a bulleted list of his attributes. He thought it was going well, until the interviewer sat back in his chair and sighed.

"Look, I'll level with you," he said, looking at his watch. "You obviously know what the hell you're talking about. Your resume shows a long history of experience, even if your tenures aren't always very long." He flipped through the print-out of Eames's application, which included the required resume. "All voluntary resignations in the last few years, anyway. No health code or safety violations, no breaking of company policy or that sort of thing, no harassment."

"But?" Eames asked, because this sounded very much like it was heading in the direction of _but you're just not what we're looking for_.

"But I don't think this position is the best fit for you."

Eames nodded. "Fair enough."

Well, he hadn't really seen himself cooking eggs for the next few months anyway. But before he could thank the man behind the desk and stand up to leave, he was interrupted. "You should actually be talking to Rick." He glanced over to another table, where a bloke who looked more like he belonged on an American football team than in a kitchen was shaking the hand of the intern who'd been trying to keep himself from passing out earlier. "Are you opposed to lunch or dinner service?"

"No," Eames said after a quick moment of consideration. That _was_ where he excelled, after all. "Not opposed at all."

"Then wait here for a second." A few moments later, his interviewer gestured at him from his spot next to the much larger bloke, and Eames gathered his things and sat in the chair he was being directed into. "This is Rick Cadovan," he was told, as Eames shook the man's hand. "Man behind much of the lunch and dinner service success. Why don't you two talk for a while?" And then he was gone, and Eames was somehow in the middle of an interview he hadn't scheduled.

"Manchester?" Rick asked a bit later, as he finished flipping through the last of Eames's application while Eames answered the standard "tell me about your strengths" question.

Eames chuckled. His answer hadn't mentioned any place at all. "Originally, yes. How'd you know?"

"Guessed--from the accent," Rick said, with a grin. "Wife's from Isle of Man. But her father's from Manchester. You sound more like him than anyone else I've heard in a few years, but also kind of like her mother."

"Mother from London?" Eames asked with a similar grin. The answering laugh gave him an affirmative. "Spent a bit of time all over, really. Pick up a little bit from everywhere, usually without meaning to." He dropped the voice that came naturally and adopted a new one entirely, rounding over some of the more clipped enunciation, altering his vowels appropriately, and adding a bit of nasal twang. "Including four months down in Georgia."

Rick laughed, loud and hearty. "Your cooking as versatile as your voice?"

"Just about on par with each other, I'd say."

"Well, then, let's do this. I'm not sure I've got a spot that fits with your availability. I need someone free Wednesday nights, starting at four, and you have marked that you have a class until seven. I'm going to try to work it out, because I think you'd be an asset here. But in case it doesn't happen, I'm going to give you my friend's number. He works at _Exquis_. Do you know it?"

"Know it? I think I had a religious experience with their ossobuco and the carpaccio of beef."

Rick shook his head, scribbled a name and a phone number onto the back of one of his own business cards, and slid it across the table to Eames. "Remember to mention that," he said with a wry grin. "I don't know that they have an internship thing with your school like they do with the Art Institute, but they could probably work something out with the school. Either way, keep the name and number for the next time you're there. The guy makes a mean porterhouse." He stood, and Eames knew that was his dismissal. "Like I said, I'll try to get you in here, but if you don't hear from me by tomorrow night, give me a call. And _definitely_ give me a shout, if you don't have any late classes and want a spot here next semester. Or we'll _stage_ you after graduation or something."

Eames shook the offered hand and thanked the man, assuring him he'd do just that. When he reached where Ariadne was waiting for him, sitting near the doors they'd entered through, she gave him a look. "Looks like _that_ went well. Get the breakfast position, then?"

"No. That bloke does lunch and dinner, actually."

"But I thought..." Ariadne said uncertainly as they walked through the hotel lobby, heading for where Eames had parked. "I mean, wasn't that what you'd applied for? Or am I just losing my mind? Or was I hanging out with Jim when we discussed it, and I just didn't remember right because I was distracted?"

Eames shook his head as they reached his vehicle, explaining the whole thing as he drove her back to her apartment. He'd offered to drive her to her next interview, since it wasn't far from now, and was near an Asian market he liked to frequent, but she blushed and insisted she could go on her own.

"It's not that I don't appreciate the support, because I'd probably have had a panic attack or stress-eaten my body weight in ice cream by now if it weren't for you and Arthur being so reassuring this last week," she said as Eames pulled up in front of her building. "It's just...um...the place I'm interviewing next isn't, like...a typical bakery?"

"What's different about it, then? Is it somewhere Arthur or I should investigate? You know how he is about trying new culinary experiences, especially bakeries. Or is it some place we might know?"

Ariadne flushed. "Um. You _might_ , I guess. It's just that it's kind of a specialty place."

"Like all fondant and nine-dollar cupcakes?"

"...More like...anatomically-correct cupcakes," she eventually answered, voice squeaking just a little.

"An erotic bakery?" Eames asked, intrigued. "Well, then. Internship or not, I expect the name and location of this place," he said as she undid her safety belt. "Because if you think I can learn of such a place and _not_ surprise Arthur with something both phallic and completely edible, you have completely misjudged me, love."

Still bright red, Ariadne turned to him, her hand still on the door handle. "Yeah, I know, and that's what has me worried. But if you do, please, for the love of God, get a picture of his reaction."

"Oh, just try and stop me," Eames said with a little wave as she stepped out of the car.

Ariadne working in an erotic bakery. Eames chuckled. He'd love to witness the conversation where Ariadne told Arthur she was working there. It would easily beat the fun of telling Arthur he'd had an interesting experience of his own.


	7. Chapter 7

While not his favorite part of culinary school, Arthur had to admit that the lecture portions of his classes were informative. Most of the real learning, however, took place while standing in the kitchen, and not taking notes from the board or PowerPoint presentations. If he had to venture a guess, he'd say that perhaps fifteen percent of written information--outside of recipes--was new to him, or required him to actually pay attention and review to keep straight.

Chef Dom Cobb seemed determined to change that this semester.

The class had seemed like something more for fun than for the challenge, when he'd registered, and Arthur remembered Ariadne giving Eames shit for being a Brit in a class solely about regional American recipes and variations, joking about how much harder it would be for him.

Of course, she'd been wrong. And if this had been last semester, Arthur was pretty sure he'd be seething about it right about now, and downright irate about it, come midterms and finals.

The thing about Regional American Cuisine, Arthur and Ariadne were learning the hard way, was that there was a _hell_ of a lot of history behind it. They had two textbooks, both of them containing information they'd be tested on, though they were to completely ignore the recipes in one. Eight hundred pages between the two books, and maybe a hundred and fifty of those pages were recipes they could use, in some form. The rest was information that made Arthur think they should change the name of the course to "The History of Foreign Influences on American Cuisine."

"Before this class, I never thought I'd want to punch someone for using the term 'melting pot' in regards to the U.S," Ariadne grumbled, hoisting a container of boiled crawfish onto the table. Arthur took a good look at the mass of red shells in the container and wondered just how long the smell of seafood would stay on him.

"You and Arthur are just upset because you didn't expect this class to require you to learn anything new," Eames said, grinning crookedly and tightening his apron strings. "And because Cobb made it clear today that the midterm exam is entirely written, with no practical exam component until the final." When Arthur grunted his annoyance, Eames raised his eyebrows and looked at him. "I'd never have figured you for one to be upset about the opportunity to show off your abundance of knowledge."

"I didn't expect this class to require us to know the difference between cajun and creole cuisine, among a thousand other tiny details," Arthur said, taking a crawfish in hand and turning his attention to Cobb, who was at the front of the classroom and demonstrating how to best remove the meat from the shell. Lobster, Arthur had worked with before. Shrimp had been a familiar thing as well, as he hadn't purchased pre-cooked, or even pre-peeled and deveined shrimp since he was nineteen and his Boston-born roommate had shown him how flavorless the crap in mass-produced packages in the frozen grocery aisle could be, in comparison to the fresh stuff. But crawfish...were not a thing Arthur'd ever had cause to experiment with. The first section in this class, covering New England cuisine, had been an even mixture of things familiar and new. Southern cuisine, however, had Arthur a little out of his element.

"Oh, gross," Arthur heard someone mutter behind him as Cobb twisted the tail back and forth a little, then pulled until the meat popped out from the body of the shell. Arthur'd had sort of the same initial reaction upon hearing Paul utter the phrase "rip the legs off" as he proceeded to do just that with a raw, headless shrimp. This wasn't any weirder, if you ate any sort of shellfish, really.

Of course, when Cobb said that some people sucked on the heads, or even enjoyed sticking a finger into the body to scoop out the fat and suck on it, even Arthur decided there were some experiences he could probably live without.

"Okay, you know what?" Ariadne said after her eighth or ninth crawfish was peeled. "I get that crawfish _étouffée_ is really popular, and a staple of the whole cajun-creole-southern thing, because it's on basically every menu in New Orleans and all, but I just...I can't...I mean, how does someone even _think_ to eat something that they call a 'mudbug'?" she asked, shuddering. "Also, seriously, you guys, peel faster, because I want this part over with so I can get to dicing bell peppers or making rice or roux or something. It's kind of freaking me out."

Arthur shook his head, while Eames chuckled and nudged her arm. "Well, I believe Cobb simply wants the recipe completed by the end of class, and mostly wanted to ensure that everyone could do this, in case it came up in the exam, love. So, if Arthur has no objections, why don't you move on to another step while we finish this?"

Ariadne looked at Cobb, who was standing at someone else's table, shaking his head and saying something about better ways to slice bell peppers, taking the knife into his own hand to demonstrate, and then at the pile of crawfish still left to peel. "Really?" she asked, and Arthur could hear the combination of hope and relief in her voice.

"Yeah, fine by me," he assured her. "Hey, you took the bullet for me last semester, when you did the salmon and had me zest and juice lemons."

She scrunched up her face for a moment, then grinned crookedly. "Oh, when you had the migraine, right. Confession time: that was one-third out of concern for you, one-third concern we'd have to spend forever sanitizing and starting over if you _did_ throw up, and one-third concern for my new kitchen shoes that were a lot more comfortable than the others I'd been wearing." She giggled. "Well, okay, maybe a little more concern for you than the shoes, but still."

Arthur sighed. "And here I thought you were just being a good friend."

"Oh, Arthur," she sighed, moving to a clean cutting board across from him and grabbing the bowl of bell peppers and a knife from the magnet. "I'm still a good friend. I got you and Eames into each other's pants, didn't I?"

Arthur shot her a dirty look, feeling his cheeks go warm, as Eames tried to cover his laughter up with a faked coughing fit, his face pressed into the shoulder of his chef's coat.

And still, somehow, despite all this, he still had to admit that being here in a kitchen with the two of them, talking and laughing while they prepped and cooked, was one of his favorite things.


	8. Chapter 8

It was hard to deny: Eames thoroughly enjoyed spending time with someone who not only appreciated his experience, but sought out his advice. Arthur would occasionally ask for tips or tricks or suggestions, but Ariadne came to him looking for more direct guidance.

Generally, he was quite happy to help others refine their technique if he could. He just did it more willingly for those he cared about, invested more energy into it.

"I feel really stupid doing this, you know," Ariadne muttered, face bright red.

"Yes, well, you were the one who asked for help. Part of learning to project your voice and your presence, like Chef Mal was telling you to, is to actually practice that. It would be like me teaching you the hand and finger positions for the flute, but without you actually playing a note."

"You play the flute?" Ariadne asked, voice full of surprise, as she looked around and made sure they were totally alone in the classroom. They still had another thirty-five minutes before World Cuisine began, and the door had been fortuitously unlocked.

"Well, no," Eames admitted. "But you understand the analogy. Now, let's hear it. From the diaphragm, not the throat."

Ariadne sighed, then drew herself up straight, closing her eyes. "Knife!"

"Not bad, love. I might almost be able to hear you if you were less than two steps away in your average kitchen during a slow period."

Opening her eyes, Ariadne glared at him. "I'm trying, okay? I thought that was loud."

"Try this, then: close your eyes and imagine what it sounds like, back in the dish pit, with the machine going. You know, the rushing water cycling between soap and rinse and sanitizing. Now add on the sound of people banging pots and pans around, or slamming sheet pans onto metal tables. Can you hear it?"

"Yeah," she replied, already a little louder than usual.

"Good. Now imagine I'm twenty feet away, around the corner, with my back to the rest of the kitchen. You see someone with a pan full of something hot coming for me, but I can't see them. You're the only one that sees we're about to collide. Warn me."

"This is stup--"

"Warn me, or I'll be burned."

"I can't beli--"

"Warn me!"

"Hot, behind you!" she barked, looking first frustrated, and then shocked as she realized what had just happened.

"And that, love, is how you alert someone in a kitchen," Eames said, with a theatrical wave of his hand.

"Holy shit, that was loud, huh?" she breathed, wide-eyed.

"Absolutely perfect."

"I still feel kind of stupid, but that was a little awesome." She launched herself at him in a hug, and Eames only just managed not to stumble enough that they both remained off the floor.

"Glad it helped. I told you you could do it, didn't I? Practice it, though, all right? Press a pillow to your face at home, if you don't want your roommate hearing."

"Yeah, I can do that," she said as the door to the classroom opened and a group of three other students walked in, looking startled to find others there so early.

"Get your internship finalized?" Eames asked as they settled into their usual desks and waited for Chef Mal and the rest of their classmates to arrive.

"Yeah, finally. Got my schedule for the first week, too. If it stays the same, I can say goodbye to any sort of social life. It's full shifts on the weekends, starting after I get out of my pastry arts classes on Friday. What about you? That guy at the hotel get you in, after all?"

"No, but I did get something worked out with the other place he recommended. The school's internship coordinator emailed me this morning with confirmation and the liability paperwork they need to sign and fax into the office before I begin."

Ariadne sighed. "Well, I hope your schedule's better than mine. I'm trying to figure out when I'm going to see Jim around my new schedule. At least you know you'll see Arthur in class."

Eames gave her a smile, trying not to dwell on the fact that he'd had a very similar concern run through his head when Arthur had called last night to tell him he'd settled on his internship location. "Things good with the new fellow?"

Ariadne turned a little pink and shrugged. "Yeah, I think so. He's busy a lot of nights, but he's kind of fun. And he's cute. Really friendly. We're not super in love or anything, but it's nice." She bit at her lower lip. "I just sort of wish..."

"What?"

She sighed and reached for the bottle of water she kept in her bag. "Never mind. I'm being silly. Hey, tomorrow, if you've got some time after classes, d'you think you could help me work on projecting some more?" She raised her eyebrows. "I could pay you in _galaktoboureko_?"

Eames stared at her for a moment. "And where on earth did you acquire some?" He tried not to drool at the thought of the thick custard, paired with phyllo.

"My aunt visited this weekend," Ariadne said with a look that said she knew she had Eames hooked already. "And a woman from her church back in New York runs a Greek bakery."

"Please say there's some with lemon-flavored custard," Eames murmured. The things he'd do for some authentic _galaktoboureko_ were shameful. It had been years since he'd found the real thing and, unlike baklava, it wasn't widely available in the first place.

"She brought some with rose-flavored custard, some with plain, and, yes, some with lemon." She paused, her smile widening. "I might have mentioned that I had a friend who used to work in a good Greek restaurant, who had offered to teach me to make proper _yiaprakia_ and _skordalia_. And she might have brought an extra tupperware container for me to give to that friend, if I wanted. So," she said, grinning when Eames's stomach growled audibly, "does that mean you'll help?"

"You're a very persuasive woman," Eames said slowly. "Perhaps a bit devious, and possibly a touch evil, but persuasive just the same."

Ariadne beamed at him, turning her attention to the front when Chef Mal entered. "Such a flatterer."


	9. Chapter 9

Early mornings had never been much of a problem for Arthur, who had little problem getting out of bed to get shit done earlier than others. But an alarm blaring at four o'clock, after Arthur had only managed to drag himself away from Eames's place at ten the night before, was _seriously_ testing his physical adaptability and enthusiasm for this new internship.

A shower and a quick cup of coffee made the morning a little easier to tolerate, and Arthur arrived precisely at five-fifteen and rang the delivery bell in the alley, as instructed. It was still dark out at this time of year, and Arthur didn't relish standing out in an alley in the cold, having to wait for someone to let him in, especially when he couldn't tell if there were any lights on inside. Eventually the door swung open and the woman who had interviewed Arthur popped her head outside. "Arthur! Right on time. Come on in, let's get you started." Maureen looked him over as he stepped inside. "Any chance you've got a chef's coat that doesn't have your school's logo on it? Preferably white?"

"No, but I'd been planning on ordering some new ones," he replied, trying to remember if she'd mentioned something when she'd called to offer him the internship.

"Oh, well, no matter," she said, dismissing it, holding the door to the office open for him to enter ahead of her. "We have a few spares around for emergencies. We can give you one to use while you're here." She gestured to one of the two cheap office chairs that sat along the counter built into the wall. There was no standard office desk in the space, which was almost ludicrously tiny. "Here, sit. Start filling out that paperwork there next to the adding machine. I'll see if I can find one in a medium," she said, before shaking her head and muttering. "No, thin, but long torso and arms. Large, then."

She bustled around, and Arthur tried to hide his amusement as he filled out liability forms and signed the acknowledgement of the company policies and other required legalese. Just as he finished signing the last one and pulling out both his driver's license and student ID to be photocopied, Maureen held out a clean white chef's coat. "Here we are."

Arthur switched his school uniform out for the offered one, noting that the one Maureen had supplied had no pocket on the arm for a thermometer, nor a chest pocket to hold a small spiral notepad or anything else. As Arthur had gotten used to always having a pen on his arm and both his phone and a notepad in his pocket, he decided it might be time to order a plain coat or two on his own, anyway.

"Details all taken care of," she said brusquely, handing back his IDs. "Now come on, let's get you oriented. First things first--the case."

She practically dragged Arthur from the office into the front of house, flipping on the house lights as she passed through. "Two cases, which I'm sure you saw when you interviewed," she began, "but let's run through them. Room temp one on the left, half the size of the other. That's where we keep the breakfast pastries, the cookies, the fudge, and any chocolates, if we have them. Those are mostly seasonal--Christmas, Valentine's Day, Mother's Day, that sort of thing. They're supplemental, and not something we currently expend the time, effort, and cost on. Labor-heavy. Got it?"

"Yeah," Arthur said, nodding. It wasn't anything that didn't make immediate sense, though he still wished he had a pen and notepad, if only because he felt comfortable with them, knowing that anything that _did_ need reviewing was at his fingertips.

"Good. The main case is our cold case. Piece goods. Brownies, bars, tarts, anything cream-filled or dairy-based, but mostly, our cupcakes. That's our specialty, as you know. We do all of our cupcakes, and most of everything else, from scratch, or as close to it as we can manage, given time, labor, and equipment requirements. Any questions yet?"

Arthur's eyes scanned over the case, which was empty of product, but still had product signs in place. "If it's from scratch, how do you get white buttercream?" he asked slowly, hoping that wasn't out of line.

Maureen's lips quirked. "Right, you were the one with all the attention to detail. That's the one real exception to the 'from scratch' rule. We get that from a bakery supplier, and it's, to put it bluntly, the same shit everyone else uses, from the chain grocery stores on up and down the line. I'd love to have a good, affordable, tasty recipe for a pure white buttercream icing, but I don't. So we use the cheap stuff, because it's easy and consistent, and is the easiest thing to color or airbrush. The chocolate's real butter, and so's the cream cheese and caramel and strawberry and the rest, though."

"Got it."

Maureen ran through the stocking procedures, the basics of day-to-day operations in front and back of house, and which responsibilities were his and the kitchen staff's, versus those of her small front-of-house staff. She did it all so rapidly that Arthur wondered if she'd learned to speak without needing to bother to breathe, and thanked heaven he had a natural ability to retain a large number of facts thrown at him in a brief period. "You good on all this?" she asked as a girl of about twenty arrived, hair already up and tucked under her cap and a half-apron tied around her waist.

"Yeah," Arthur said, shaking the girl's hand when Maureen introduced her as Karen, and Arthur back to her.

Maureen grinned. "I like you, Arthur. You pay attention. Now let's get into the kitchen and to work. You've still got a couple of hours before you take off. That's enough time for a small project."

"Sounds good."

"Unfortunately, Charlie--that's our production manager; I can't remember if you met him during your interview or not--won't be in until around nine today. He had a bit of a last-minute situation come up. But if you two don't get acquainted before you leave, he'll be here the rest of the week and get you set." She walked into the back of house and looked around, seemingly trying to find someone in particular. "Hey, Danny, got a minute?" she called to someone in the far corner who was busy jotting something down onto a clipboard.

"Yeah, I guess so," was the hesitant response. "Par check can wait a few minutes. What'd you need, Maureen?"

"Danny, this is Arthur, our new intern from Pacifica. Charlie's going to be late, so could you give him a quick tour of back here and give him something to do until he has to leave at nine? I don't know, dishes or filling the dry staples bins or helping to put the order away or something?"

_Grunt work,_ Arthur thought, trying not to let his disappointment show on his face.

"Yeah, sure, we can find something to keep him occupied for a couple hours," Danny said with a nod. When Maureen had gone back out to the front, Danny gave Arthur a look up and down that was far from subtle. Arthur kept still and took it. "So. Pacifica, huh? Why not one of the bigger schools? Too pricey?"

"I liked their pastry arts program," Arthur said, trying to keep his voice even. Who was this guy to judge? "And I didn't see the point in spending three times the money for an education comparable to the one I'd get at one of the other schools."

"Oh, so you're a pastry arts student," Danny said, smirking. "In that case, let me ask: can you ice a cupcake? With a pastry bag and tip and everything?"

Arthur forced his hands and jaw to stay unclenched. "Disposable or canvas bag?" he asked, looking Danny right in the eye. "And would you prefer a star tip, or round? I personally like the Ateco eight-twenty-nine for a basic cupcake with buttercream."

Danny raised his eyebrows at him and, for a terrifying moment, Arthur thought he was going to be put drain-scrubbing duty for the entirety of his internship, or maybe even ordered out of the kitchen. But then the other guy just started to crack up. "Awesome, dude. You aren't one of those high-and-mighty people who think that just because they've paid a lot of money to go to school, it means they're better than everyone. At least, I don't think you are. Guess we won't find out till you actually ice a cupcake." He caught the eye of someone working at the main table in the kitchen. "Hey, Kev. You have any of that white buttercream bagged up over there? Star tip, maybe?"

"Yeah," the other guy said, bending down and pulling out a tray Arthur hadn't noticed. Just from a quick glance, Arthur could see maybe a dozen plastic bags of icing in just as many colors, most of them fitted with plastic couplers. "You need a tray of cupcake blanks, too? We should still have a few dozen vanilla."

"Nah, just one."

"Just one--? Oh." Kev--Kevin, Arthur assumed--said, catching sight of Arthur. "Culinary student, huh? This could be good. Hold on, let me go grab a blank from Christie. She's in the freezer, I think."

Arthur had time to ask himself if his choice to intern here had possibly been a huge mistake, as well as wonder if Maureen knew this was how her kitchen staff treated new interns, before Kevin and a girl Arthur took to be Christie appeared, a single un-iced vanilla cupcake in her gloved hand.

"Eight-twenty-seven, not twenty-nine, as you claimed to prefer," Danny said, clearly amused with himself. "But let's see how you do. Simple spiral. Come on."

Arthur muttered to himself, placing the cupcake directly onto the table and taking the offered bag of icing. "It's a cupcake," he said, loudly enough for those literally standing in a circle around him to hear. "Not rocket science." He lifted the tip from the swirl of icing and nodded down at the cupcake, gesturing with his chin. "Pass inspection?" he bit out, not even bothering to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

Christie was the first to say anything, dropping her haughty look for a genuine smile. "Ooh, you'll work here, I can tell. Another smartass joins the ranks." She turned to look at Kevin. "You owe me lunch, then. I told you if Maureen took on another intern, this one would know his shit."

Arthur couldn't help but feel a little confused. He'd just been feeling this place was a little too _Lord of the Flies_ or something, with Maureen out of the kitchen, and then suddenly, everyone's grinning and even laughing. "I'm sorry, what the hell just happened?"

Danny clapped him on the back. "Sorry, dude. We've had some unpleasant experiences with a couple of prior interns. Some of them think the fact that they're enrolled in a fancy cooking school means they automatically know more than the rest of us. You wouldn't believe how many of them literally can't handle a piping bag--like, can't fill it the right way, can't figure out how to use a coupler and get it to stay in there without popping out, and sure as hell can't ice a cupcake in any way that resembles a cupcake. But you did it. Hell, you did it and gave some attitude back. That's great, Charlie'll love it. He's a little unorthodox sometimes, and a little attitude's a good thing, here, so long as you know when to drop it. Now leave that cupcake on that shelf there by the phone, and follow me. I'll give you the grand tour, and then you can help me put away the order. Maybe we'll even have time for a batch of ganache. Giant order for eclairs later."

Arthur trailed after Danny, trying to figure out how he felt about the whole challenge and test scenario. Was this a typical kitchen thing? He made a mental note to ask Eames, stepping into the pantry and listening as Danny explained the layout of the different dry ingredients.

He wondered, not so idly, what the hell he might have gotten himself into with this place.


	10. Chapter 10

Eames's first thought, upon entering the kitchen of _Exquis_ for his first shift as an intern, was that this place reminded him of something familiar, something he should be able to pinpoint immediately.

His second was that the kitchen manager could probably crush him like an insect if Eames so much as got the amount of salt wrong in a recipe. The man was _massive_. He had to have nine inches on Eames, and a good seventy-five pounds, minimum. Eames wasn't easily physically intimidated, but he was fairly certain only an idiot wouldn't be at least somewhat respectful of the man's size.

He didn't even have a chance to say hello or introduce himself properly before the behemoth of a man turned away from the saute pan in front of him, handing off his spatula to someone else standing there alongside him. "You're Eames?" he said, the words sounding very little like an actual question.

"Yes, chef," was the automatic response. Best to be professional straight away. He'd already got a brief tour of the kitchen two hours before, and had spent the last hour or so with a copy of some of the recipes he'd be helping with for the week, but the person who had hired him and done his paperwork had simply instructed him to go out and "find the largest man in the kitchen at the moment, and report to him" for his assignment.

"Phalen Forsythe."

"Pleasure to meet you," Eames said with a nod. He was usually quite ready with a handshake and all the other pleasantries of an introduction, but had always found them awkward in a kitchen, where even the briefest of clasps required both parties to wash their hands, if not don new pairs of gloves on top of that.

Phalen grunted. "We'll see if you think so by the end of service. I've got a bunch of stuff in mind for you, Eames, if you think you've got what it takes to make it through the night in one piece. I'm a hard man to please."

The remark sounded, to be honest, more of a warning or challenge than self-deprecating or light-hearted, and Eames changed tactics just slightly. He'd worked in a good number of kitchens in the past decade, and had learned a number of rules that served him well.

The first was that no matter how much you knew, or thought you knew, about anything to do with kitchen operations and even basic recipes and techniques, you had to be prepared to immediately forget three-quarters of it--if not _all_ of it--in favor of learning it from scratch from the chef in charge at each place of employment. Every kitchen had some similarities, but nearly all executive chefs (really, anyone important enough in a kitchen to have an actual title) believed their way was the only real way, and nothing learned before working under them was of any value.

The second rule was that the first would keep you employed, but sanitation, food safety, and a watchful eye would keep you alive and in one piece. The third was that no matter how well, how consistently, how exactly you did something, you were never doing it quickly enough.

The fourth rule, however, was the one Eames thought most applicable at the moment: each chef had their own personality, though there were a few set types to be aware of. The Tyrant was common, and The Hand-Holder essentially non-existent. But there were few types who did not respond well to someone willing to suck it up, do the tasks that needed doing, and, quite frequently, take some abuse without whinging.

Eames could do that. Gregarious or solitary, boisterous or formal, he could be whatever was needed of him.

He could also be a bit of a smartass, truth be told. Not as caustic as Arthur, as a general rule, but that was mainly because Eames had had the experience of defusing a large number of volatile situations with humor and quick wit, whereas he gathered people usually responded to Arthur's particular brand of snark and dryness in a way that got the result he desired.

Eames offered up a warm smile, making eye contact as he spoke. "Then in that case, chef, show me what you need done." He let his smile twist into a good-humored smirk. "I do believe all those papers I signed this evening rather strongly hinted that I am, to use the phrase, your bitch."

Phalen stared at him for a moment, then snorted a laugh. "Not as refined as I guessed from your voice. You might just survive." He gestured for Eames to follow him back to one of the prep stations, where there were two cases of whole chickens, ready to be cleaned. "You know what you're doing here?"

"Do you want them roasted whole, split into halves, or broken down in some other way?"

Phalen whistled through his teeth. "Pretty boy has some working knowledge. One case split, two-thirds halves, one-third bone-in breasts, thighs, wings, drumsticks. Second case, all whole legs and boneless, skinless breasts. Any questions?"

"Just three," Eames said, eyeing his knife options from the magnet along the wall. If he was going to be doing this often, he'd have to remember to start bringing his own knife roll.

"Three?" Phalen sounded skeptical.

"Three. One, where are the cutting gloves? Two, do you have disposable plastic aprons for tasks like these? And three, where would you like the carcasses? Because I'm assuming you utilize them in this kitchen, but I could be wrong."

Eames looked up from surveying the task at hand to see the man grinning at him. As Eames watched, he walked around to the side of the station, opened a drawer down below, and removed a mesh cutting glove and a thin white disposable full apron from a large box of them. "Use the largest-size lugger from the shelf over there for the bones," he said, gesturing, "and use whichever size Lexan works best for each cut of chicken. Label the mess appropriately. Tags are on a roll above your head. Come find me when you're done." He chuckled. "I'm going to _like_ having you as my bitch, son."

"I aim to please, chef," Eames said with a cheeky half-salute as he turned towards the hand sink. The last thing he heard from his new supervisor was another chuckle and a muttered, "that cocky little bastard is the highlight of my week, so far."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Try as I might, I could not get all 33 chapters posted in one go (well, not without giving up absolutely any chance of sleep, and we're down to 2 hours of such within the last 40, anyway). The rest will be up within the next few days--as soon as I have the time to get them all uploaded and fight with the html, rich text, and preview functions.
> 
> Sorry this isn't up in one session, guys. Next time I do something with 30+ chapters, I'll take a day off work to get it up or something ;~;


	11. Chapter 11

Two hours into his second full internship shift, Arthur found himself gritting his teeth so hard that he was in the midst of a tension headache from hell.

It wasn't that the tasks he was being assigned were too difficult. In fact, that was far from the case. On his first full day, for example, he'd helped put away the supply order, making sure to rotate product, check dates, break down boxes, and verify everything against the invoice. That had been followed by learning the proper way to glaze and otherwise garnish the few breakfast pastries Touch of Sweet produced, which took all of three minutes. And after that, Arthur had piped pastry cream into split cream puff shells of fresh _pâte à choux_ , piled fresh berries on top of that, and replaced the top of the cream puff, dusting it with donut sugar.

It was that task, apparently, that had earned him his new nickname:

Cream Puff.

It had been annoying enough, once Arthur had realized that was how Chef Charlie Saunders had been addressing him, rather than using his name. It took on a whole new level of grating when Arthur walked into his second day under Charlie's command to an exuberant, "Hey, Cream Puff!"

Arthur wondered if it would be completely irrational to toss the man bodily into the convection oven, which was the size of a very small walk-in closet.

Perhaps a little too _Sweeney Todd_.

But that little daydream might help him get through this internship with his sanity intact. Because it was only the tail-end of January, and Arthur was scheduled to be here until mid-May. If he didn't snap first.

"Hey, dude, you all right?" someone asked, setting one of the Hobart mixer bowls onto the table beside Arthur with a grunt and loud clang of metal against metal. "You look really intensely irritated right now. Like you might shut someone into the walk-in freezer and weld the door shut."

Huh. That might work, too.

Arthur looked up to see Danny giving him that raised-eyebrow look, like he actually expected an answer. Even if Arthur _didn't_ feel as if his best way through this experience was to keep far removed from everyone involved in giving him crap over the cupcake-icing thing his first day, he couldn't come up with a way to explain what was bothering him. A snapped "Charlie's a dick and I'm tired of being sexually harassed, and I think it might be because he figured out I'm gay, somehow" just didn't seem like the sort of thing that made working with everyone else in this place any easier. It didn't help that Arthur was already aware that, as a rule, kitchens tended to be a lot more lenient on policies of harassment and vulgarity, and those who were sensitive to that sort of thing might just be better off considering a different line of work.

But seriously, Cream Puff? Arthur could take some ribbing, really. This, however, felt too far over the line. He wasn't in the closet or anything, hadn't been since high school, but this irked him.

Before Arthur could think of a way to deflect Danny appropriately without making life any harder on himself, he felt someone step up behind him and loom. "Hey, lookin' good, Cream Puff!" Charlie enthused, much, _much_ closer than Arthur was comfortable with. Arthur couldn't help but stiffen at the name, and it took a significant amount of effort to just keep lining the flower-shaped cookies in front of him with thick royal icing. "Nice outline. Not a wiggly line in the bunch. Carry on."

"Ooh, that's it, huh?" Danny murmured after Charlie had walked out into the front of house. "Not thrilled with your new nickname?"

"Pardon me if I'm not a fan of my new boss choosing to demean--"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Danny interrupted, holding up his gloved hands. One of them had streaks of chocolate mousse along the wrist. "Didn't I tell you Charlie was kind of unorthodox?"

Arthur sighed, irritated. "Calling the new guy by a term reminiscent of--"

"Dude, chill. I think you're getting the wrong idea. It's not just you."

"I'm sorry?"

"He doesn't just call _you_ by some stupid, annoying-ass nickname. It's everyone. Well, I take it back. It's everyone he _likes_. You've seen him and Steve butt heads already, right?" Danny asked, jerking his head back to the guy rummaging through the pantry. Arthur hadn't exchanged any words with him yet, but he had seen him and Charlie argue over whether yesterday's eclairs had had a thick enough coating of ganache to be acceptable, and it had seemed oddly antagonistic between the two of them, for such a simple source of disagreement.

"Yeah, I guess."

"So, Steve only gets called Steve. Some of the old interns only got called by their names. The rest of us? Ridiculous nicknames." He gestured to Kevin, who was leaning against the wall and looking into his mixing bowl as if the slowly rotating paddle had him in a trance. "Kev? Strawberry Shortcake." He pointed at a girl Arthur had only met this morning. "Sarah? Pudding. Christie? Snickerdoodle." He continued around the room. "Landon's Sprinkles, Ethan's Honey Bun, Tammy's Marshmallow, Gemma's Shortbread, and Madeleine's Cupcake."

Arthur couldn't help but snort at the last one. "He actually could have kept using her name."

"Actually, one of the other guys who used to work here--Eric--was called Madeleine. When Maddy started, it got all fucking sorts of confusing until Charlie changed him to Pumpkin."

"So, what's your nickname, then?" Arthur asked. Sprinkles and Honey Bun weren't exactly any better than Cream Puff, which, if nothing else, made Arthur less likely to think the name had anything to do with his sexual orientation.

Danny grinned at him. "Me? I'm Lady Fingers. Now come on, Cream Puff, back to work."

The explanation and elaboration made Arthur feel slightly less homicidal about the fact that he was routinely being addressed as Cream Puff, but that didn't mean he had to _like_ it. He was trying to explain that to Eames later that evening as they leaned against the wall outside of Saito's Intro to Wines class, waiting for Ariadne to be done.

"Well?" Arthur asked, exasperated, when Eames hadn't said anything for several moments after Arthur had vented, instead just looking as if he was thinking intently about something.

"I think I'd like to be called 'Fruit Tart'," Eames said very slowly, as if he were still deep in contemplation. "Oh, or perhaps 'Manchester Tart'? That's fitting as well."

"Oh my God, seriously?" Arthur groaned, facepalming. "Why do I even talk to you about these things?"

"It's a mystery of the universe," Eames agreed, his face serious. "We may never know."

"Fuck me," Arthur muttered as he let himself fall back against the wall, his messenger bag plopping down at his feet. His day had been too stressful to cope with this and, if Ariadne took any longer getting out of class, Arthur was going to fall asleep standing up and Eames would have to give her a ride home instead.

"Is that an invitation?" Eames murmured, standing up against the wall alongside Arthur. Their arms were pressed together just above the elbow, and Arthur fought the urge to just lean his head against Eames's shoulder and stay that way, his eyes closed, until something forced him to move.

Arthur sighed deeply, then wrinkled his nose. "Ugh, you smell like pickled ginger. I'm not opposed to it as an ingredient, but it's not great as a cologne. Just so you know."

"I'll keep that in mind the next time we go out," Eames said, one of his hands reaching out and taking Arthur's left one. "Sorry, someone dropped and shattered a jar of it about an hour ago. I've stopped smelling it."

"Lucky you." Arthur reached down and snagged his bottle of water from the side of his bag and downed half of it. He'd been thirsty since lunch, when he'd made the unwise decision to get a large order of fries from the cafeteria. By the time he'd eaten one and realized they'd been double-salted, it was too late to get anything else before class, and it was eat what he had or collapse. When Arthur finally paused for air, he saw the door to Ariadne's class open, and she emerged after a few moments behind a crowd of others. "Running late tonight, I guess," Arthur said, looking at his watch.

Ariadne caught sight of them and beamed, heading for them after an exaggerated, enthusiastic wave to one of her classmates. "Arthur! Eames! Hey, guys!" She leaned in and hugged Arthur tightly, then moved to give Eames the same treatment. "Oh, man, you smell like a sushi restaurant or something," she said, making a face. "Still huggable, though."

Eames and Arthur exchanged glances, Eames's eyebrows doing something resembling an amused dance. "You're drunk," Arthur sighed, shaking his head. "Aren't you?"

"No!" she exclaimed, her eyes going wide. But then she wobbled a little, giggling when Arthur and Eames each instinctively moved to support her. "Okay, maybe a little. But tonight was a tasting, and I thought I was a merlot girl, but it turns out I _reeeeeally_ like white zin."

Arthur shot Eames a look he hoped clearly conveyed that he was being recruited for the task of getting Ariadne safely across campus and into Arthur's car without her tripping over herself and ending up with a black eye or something. Eames nodded at Arthur, message apparently received, before he sighed and shouldered Ariadne's bag. "Didn't Saito explain the spit bucket, love?" he asked gently.

Ariadne stood up straight, adjusting her chef's coat so that the collar wasn't so high around her neck. "A lady doesn't spit," she informed them primly. "She swallows."

Arthur, who had been taking another drink from his rapidly-emptying bottle, promptly choked on his water. On Ariadne's other side, Eames made a strangled sound that sounded like he might be in danger of imploding before giving in and laughing aloud.

Ariadne eyed them both. "Ladies and _good boyfriends,_ I might add."

It was hard to miss the mirthful look in Eames's eyes, and Arthur felt a small amount of panic flare within him. "I swear to God, Eames," he said warningly, "if you tell her whether or not I'm a good boyfriend--"

"Oh that's just sad," Ariadne said, interrupting him.

Arthur raised his eyebrows. "What?"

"So, you've been giving _him_ blow jobs, but he hasn't returned the favor?" She shook her head. "Tsk, tsk, I'm ashamed of you, Eames."

Eames stopped laughing abruptly, and the expression on his face flickered for a moment. Arthur thought he saw something hurt there for a moment before it slid into a look that was half-chastised and half-amused, and he wondered if Eames was thinking about the last time he'd offered to do for Arthur what Arthur had done for him that day he'd first come over to Eames's place to work on his cake project, and Arthur had been too wound up about not yet hearing back about an internship offer to be able to focus on anything pleasurable.

Arthur had the sinking feeling that was _exactly_ what Eames was thinking about. "Ariadne," he said slowly, wanting to cut this conversation short before that look popped up on Eames's face again, "I have to say... you have a worryingly small field of information you consider private and off-limits."

"Though we do love you for that," Eames said, a smile back on his face. When Arthur elbowed him for encouraging her, Eames just shrugged. "Well, it did help us get together, didn't it?" he asked, one eyebrow lifting.

"I give up," Arthur sighed. "Come on, Ariadne, let's get you home."

Arthur had seen Ariadne more inebriated than this, and he couldn't entirely deny that there was something sort of adorable about her just a little tipsy, grinning at them both while she chatted about how awesome the wine class was and, that next semester, she was going to make sure to take the Spirits and Beers class in which they were both presently enrolled, even if she didn't _like_ beer.

"Does that mean you're going up north to Saito's vineyard over spring break?" Arthur asked as they tossed their things into his back seat, Eames having just made it to the elevators in the mostly-empty parking garage. He got to campus late enough on Tuesdays and Thursdays that he was often stuck parking on one of the top levels, or in one of the more distant lots entirely. Even after Arthur's internship shift, he was still here early enough to get a decent spot on this end of campus.

Ariadne sighed deeply, resting her head against the passenger's side window. "No. I want to. Like, really, _really_ want to. But I didn't budget my loans well enough. I mean, I'd have _just_ enough for the tickets and lodging, but I wouldn't have any money for buying anything, or the sightseeing breaks, or the optional cheese thing they've got planned for the last night."

"Have you thought about any ways to come up with some extra income?" If he had a regular income of his own, he would have readily offered to loan it to her, or maybe even offer a bit as an early birthday gift. In fact, it was something he might still be able to do, if he looked through his budget. He had some other upcoming expenditures in mind, but nothing that would put him in dire straits, or anywhere near it. He didn't like to loan money, as a general rule, but it didn't feel like a concern with Ariadne.

"Like what, sell my body?" She snorted, breath fogging up the window. "I don't have time for a part-time job between now and then, and I can't think of anything I could even put up on eBay or Craigslist, or even Etsy." She paused, most of her good mood appearing to evaporate, and Arthur was sorry he'd brought the subject up. "I guess maybe I could ask my parents to help, since it'd only be a little bit, and not the whole cost of the trip," she murmured. "I just don't like having to take money from other people, even if it's only temporary. Hate it, actually."

Hm. Well, maybe not a loan, then, Arthur figured, even if he did have the means.

The rest of the ride back to Ariadne's place was quiet, with Arthur trying to brace himself for his internship the next day, the guest lecture and demonstration in Pastry Techniques and Artistry, and the brief written quiz in Spirits and Beers, while Ariadne stared out the window she was still leaning against. "We decided on Saturday at ten, right?" Ariadne asked as Arthur pulled up to her building. "Same place we met for the midterm study session last semester?"

"Yeah."

"And you guys really are okay if Jim hangs out for a little bit?"

Arthur nodded. He wasn't overly fond of the idea, but Eames hadn't seemed to have any objections, and Ariadne had said he knew they'd be studying and wouldn't be a distraction, since he had his own work to do. "Yeah."

"You guys are awesome," she said as she gathered her things out of the back seat, then blew him a kiss. "G'night, Arthur. I'll see you in class tomorrow. Thanks for the ride."

"Have a good night," Arthur said, waving. He pulled out into traffic, telling himself he only had to stay coherent for another ten minutes of driving, and once he stepped out of the car, he only had to get himself to his sixth-floor apartment and into the door before he could collapse and sleep like the dead. He tried not to think about the fact that tomorrow was shaping up to be just as long or, at least, just as early.

Reminding himself that culinary school was the right decision did absolutely nothing for his level of exhaustion, however true it might be.


	12. Chapter 12

Eames was, he liked to think, a fairly easy-going fellow. He tended not to get worked up over much. Things often worked out, and he found energy was generally better expended in other arenas, and that the more wound up someone got, the less clearly they were able to think and act. While it wasn't quite the same way Arthur seemed to distance himself from everything, Eames could admit there was a certain level of detachment involved.

Still, that didn't mean he couldn't be irritated. Actually, what was surprising was that Arthur seemed to be handling the situation with much more grace than Eames was.

Or maybe he had just developed a more effective way to tune everything out that wasn't directly related to the material they were reviewing.

"Is there actually going to be an essay question on the role of Native American staples on the Southern American and Soul Food cuisine?" Ariadne asked, face scrunched in irritation. "Because I'm not really sure I can come up with more than a couple sentences on that."

Arthur shrugged, pausing with his highlighter three-quarters of the way down a page of the thicker of the two textbooks. "Well, there's hominy," he said, barely looking up. "So, you can discuss that and grits. And corn's the obvious choice, if you want to talk about things like cornbread. Or you could talk about how the philosophy of using every available part of the animal dovetailed with the fact that captive workers were fed as cheaply as possible, and often were only given scraps and parts of the animal that were otherwise used as refuse."

Ariadne grimaced. "If I have to write on things like chitlins, I'm going to have to skip lunch that day. There are things I'll eat if I don't know what they are. But once I do know, I can't get over it." She opened her mouth as if to say more, but all that came out was a bit of a yelp when her boyfriend grabbed her side, tickling her, before leaning in and whispering into her ear.

Eames tried to fight the twinge of annoyance that had steadily been increasing for the last hour. He couldn't pin down what about Ariadne's boyfriend had him clenching his jaw and trying to work out the tension in his shoulders, but when Arthur's hand reached out in a distracted fashion to find Eames's knee and give it a squeeze, Eames knew it was more apparent than he'd assumed.

"Right, I think that I might just be time for a quick break," he said, standing up from his chair and earning surprised looks from both Arthur and Ariadne. Jim paid him no attention, now trying to nuzzle Ariadne's neck, which, in a move that made Eames a little proud, only really earned him an elbow to his solar plexus. "Another drink, or a snack. Arthur?"

Arthur gave his books a longing glance, and Eames figured he was on his own to wander downstairs and take his time ordering another drink. But then Jim licked Ariadne's earlobe, Eames tensed even further, and Arthur sighed. "Yeah, okay."

They didn't make it more than halfway down the flight of stairs before Arthur nudged him. "You really don't like that guy, do you?" he murmured so that his voice wouldn't echo and carry back to the other two.

Habit was to deny such a thing, because Eames was usually quite good at playing nice, even with more frustrating members of society, but this was Arthur asking. "Not particularly. Can't put my finger on why."

"You don't like to share," Arthur said simply, as they made their way to the main floor, standing back from the counter and looking up at the menu as if they were heavily weighing each option.

"I seem to remember you being the one who snapped when Todd and I had that brief flirtation last semester," Eames pointed out.

"That's not exactly what I meant." Arthur offered him a small, crooked grin. "It's more... you're protective of her. Like a big brother. Like you haven't deemed this guy worthy yet."

Eames raked a hand through his hair. "Perhaps. There's just something about him that rubs me up the wrong way." He caught the minute twitch of Arthur's mouth and rolled his eyes, though he couldn't help but smile a bit, himself. "I saw that. I know you were thinking about offering to rub me up in a way I'd enjoy."

Arthur turned a slight pink. "I'm blaming that on your influence," he muttered, but that didn't stop him from from bumping his arm into Eames's companionably.

"Of course you are." He took a look at the pastry case and spied a cinnamon bun that looked promising. "But do you like the bloke?"

Shrugging, Arthur sighed. "I honestly couldn't tell you. I think it's all the P.D.A. that makes me uncomfortable between them." He seemed to consider it. "Well, actually, just him. She's not, like, _handsy_ ," he clarified with a slight grimace. "It's more the way he... I don't know."

Eames nodded his agreement. It wasn't as if anyone who knew Arthur would ever take him for the type to be overly affectionate in public. No random gropings, no hanging all over someone else, no sickening declarations of love done in a childish voice. Under most circumstances, he would take Eames's hand, or submit to a quick peck or embrace, or even offer one up on his own. It was something Eames tried not to take for granted. He'd never known Arthur as part of another relationship, but he had glimmers of insights here and there that suggested that perhaps something about him had relaxed in the last month or two.

It was funny, Eames thought as they dropped the subject and moved towards the counter to place their orders. He'd originally meant only to get Arthur to open up and be a bit less uptight, before he'd set his sights on him as a potential romantic partner. But the thought that maybe something in Arthur had needed something Eames naturally provided... well, it made him feel even more in awe of this thing they were building together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've angered the gods of the internet, I think. Having problems with it from both work and home. Even the 24-hour diner I was killing time in before work this morning wouldn't let me connect, and it's usually very cooperative. Managing to steal 20 mins in a Starbucks before my shift this morning, which ends up being 2 chapters' worth of tweaking and posting. More chapters will go up as soon as I can snag more time with cooperative, accessible internet!
> 
> Oh, and if you haven't yet seen it, there's now a link to the accompanying art ("Buttercream," by yjudaes) in the author's notes at the beginning of this fic. Sooooo pretty *_*


	13. Chapter 13

All things considered, Arthur's day was going pretty well. His internship shift this morning hadn't been nearly as miserable as some of the others, now that he'd realized Danny had been right about Charlie's use of nicknames being directly related to liking an employee. He still felt the instinct to cringe a little whenever he heard the guy address him as Cream Puff, but he wasn't having nearly so many related visions of violence. It was a start.

He'd also managed to have a decent conversation with Kevin, Christie and Danny about their favorite custom cupcake orders. Touch of Sweet didn't do full cakes, but they did rotate over two dozen cupcake varieties, and fulfilled several custom orders each week. Sometimes the customization was as simple as an icing and cake flavor pairing, or tinting the icing a particular shade, or even just using a certain type of sprinkle shape or color. But Arthur had seen Christie and Ethan working on some steampunk-themed cupcakes, complete with metallic gold and bronze luster dust on some of the fondant and chocolate accents, and he hoped he'd get the chance to work on something like that before his internship was over.

Even Chocolate and Sugar Work was going well. Of all his classes this semester, Arthur found it to be the most challenging in technique--but it was also usually the most rewarding, when he finally nailed a particular method. He got a completely different sense of satisfaction from his pastry arts classes than he did the general culinary arts ones. It was what made him more and more sure that, though he may occasionally take a job in a kitchen as a line cook or prep cook-- or perhaps even something a bit more prestigious--to get by, he wouldn't really be quite as happy as he could be.

Whether baking, decorating, or creating showpieces, pastry and other desserts were what he wanted to be working with. All of his other classes were fine, and undoubtedly improved his everyday meal experience and appreciation for good food. But sugar... felt like a calling.

And moments like this, when he was able to create a pale, creamy pink rose out of pulled sugar, made him feel amazing. Almost like a god.

Arthur shook himself minutely. That was probably the sleep deprivation talking.

He turned to Ariadne, who had been hunched over her own work for the last thirty minutes. She had three of her own roses next to her, set outside the reach of the heat lamp they were using to keep their sugar warm and pliable. "Hey, those are nice," he said, leaning over and inspecting one a little more closely. She had stretched and cut her petals thinner, and the resulting lavender roses were smaller, almost like rosebuds. "They'd look really good on a wedding cake. Have you been practicing those at your internship?"

Ariadne shook her head without looking up at him. There was something about the way she was sitting, the way she'd responded that made Arthur pause. That wasn't her 'shut up, I'm concentrating' dismissal, which he'd been on the receiving end of before. This was... something else distracting her. And not in a good way.

"Hey," he said as they gathered the last of their things and headed out of the classroom. Normally Arthur would have been one of those who volunteered to help Yusuf store the flowers not taken home by the students, but today he'd tuned out the standard request once he saw the look on Ariadne's face. She didn't say anything, and he followed her out the door, sucking briefly on the pad of his thumb, where there was now a new blister from today's dealings with hot sugar. "Hey," he tried again, reaching for her elbow. "What's wrong?"

For a moment, Arthur thought she was just going to dismiss him again, tell him nothing was wrong, but when she turned to him, he watched her lower lip quiver before she got it under control. "I'm just... it's been a really long week, and I... I..."

Her lower lip quivered again, and Arthur tried to stamp down on any panic he felt. He hated to be one of those stereotypical guys who freaked out over the sight of a girl crying, but he was awful at comforting people, as a general rule, and growing up without sisters or female cousins or anything like that put him at sort of a disadvantage. He steeled himself. This was Ariadne, which meant this was different. Without overthinking it, he tugged gently at her arm, leading her around the corner to the little alcove with the coffee dispenser machine that had been broken for over a week now. Looking around to make sure they were alone, Arthur looked her in the eye. "Tell me about it?"

Ariadne took a deep breath. "It's stupid, because I know I should be able to shrug it all off, and I've been trying, but it's everything all at once, and I can't figure out why I can't just--"

Her voice broke, and Arthur gave her arm a little squeeze. "Hey. Deep breath. Just tell me, and maybe we can figure out some solutions."

Ariadne gave him a small smile. "I don't think it's really anything that can be fixed. It's just shit I have to deal with. Like, okay, Miranda's been... I dunno. Really passive-aggressive lately. It started with something about how she didn't think she should have to pay as much rent because she's over at her boyfriend's two or three nights a week, and ever since then, things have been off, and sometimes, she's just plain bitchy. And then, I brought up the spring break thing with my mom, and that went really badly. My dad seemed willing to think over pitching in a little money for the trip, but instead she just went on this rant, about how I wasn't getting a real education, and it wasn't like I was ever going to be famous on one of those cake shows, because I don't have one of those personalities, and there was no way they were going to pay for a trip up north for me to get drunk for a week."

Arthur winced. That one was at least partially his fault, for urging her to find ways to go. At least, it felt that way. "That really sucks."

"It does," she agreed. "But I think it's just that crap on top of the internship stuff that makes it all seem worse."

"What's wrong with your internship?" He wondered if she'd had some sort of weird hazing thing, too. It suddenly hit him that he hadn't heard anything about where she was interning, other than her issues adjusting to the new time for her morning alarm.

"I hate it," she said simply. "I'm just free labor, doing all the stuff no one else likes to do, and I doubt I'll actually get to work on a cake before the semester ends. I don't know if they're afraid to have interns work on something so expensive or as important as wedding cakes, or if it's just me." She sighed. "I'm sorry to just dump that all on you. It's just that it's too early in my relationship with Jim to unload on him, and you were here, and..."

Arthur nudged her gently again. "And I _asked_ you to tell me."

"Yeah."

Reaching out with one arm, Arthur pulled her in for a hug, casual but firm. He might not have been able to give her any real answers, or said anything helpful, but as she didn't look any more upset than she'd been to start, Arthur was going to count this as a success, or at least a non-failure. "You know you can always talk to me, right? I mean, what are friends for?"

She offered another small smile; this one looked somewhat more genuine. "Yeah." She nudged him back, readjusting her backpack on her shoulder and leaning in for another quick hug and a peck on the cheek. "Thanks. Remind me to bake you a cake later."

Arthur grinned and shook his head. "How about you offer again on a day where I haven't been up to my elbows in sugar for most of the last twelve hours?"


	14. Chapter 14

Eames rather thought that the biggest lesson he was learning this semester was discovering just how little sleep he needed in order to properly function. He'd had periods in the past that had kept him busy--juggling some sort of leisure time in between two or even three jobs at a time--but rarely had he felt quite so taxed as he did these days.

Of course, it could be that his body felt it was necessary to remind him now and again that he was just shy of thirty. Far from old, and not even considered middle-aged yet, but a decade of too little sleep and long days spent standing at a range, darting to and fro in a kitchen, perhaps had the tendency to take a physical toll. And now that he was adding structured education and an actual, legitimate relationship into the mix, it really shouldn't be _that_ much of a surprise he was feeling more run down than he'd foreseen.

There was a measure of comfort in the relationship, however, and Eames had already lost count of the number of days he'd pushed himself through Fischer's Asian Cuisine class, or a dinner shift at _Exquis_ , by telling himself that, later that night, he'd at least get to see Arthur for a bit before their schedules or respective levels of exhaustion required they get some sleep.

This had definitely been one of those days.

Dinner service had been rough. Nothing had gone wrong, which was fortuitous, but they'd been steadily busy enough to keep them all hopping around, trying to accommodate a party of twenty-three, four of whom had dietary restrictions, and twice as many of whom had exacting requests as to preparation of their plates. Trying to make certain twenty steaks, cooked anywhere from extra-rare to well-done, were done at the same time, and no earlier than the side dishes, to ensure the party could be served as one was not a task that could be done without forethought and a mastery of multi-tasking. And that was even without trying to balance the orders from the other sixty patrons sat out in the dining room.

There had been one broken wine glass near the dish pit during the service, and Eames was fairly certain, given the look of the server cleaning it up, that it had been more an intentional stress-relieving move to keep from murdering a guest than it had been an accident caused by rushing to keep guests happy. Those on the line might have been feeling the pressure, but Eames was thankful he wasn't one of those who had to navigate the dining room and deal directly with the diners.

When he'd texted Arthur, asking if he wanted to spend the evening over, rather than just staying for a quick dinner of take-away from wherever they could think of, he'd not really expected to get an affirmative reply. Often, such inquiries were met with long pauses and apologetic negatives, citing Arthur's four o'clock morning alarm. Sometimes said apologies also included references to the likelihood they wouldn't be spending all of their time together _sleeping_ , which made Eames both amused and a little wistful. While there were nights that was true, there were also several evenings where advances on either behalf fell short. Eames knew it was a direct result of exhaustion and stress, but that didn't mean it wasn't disappointing, or that one of them didn't feel a bit guilty afterwards.

So when Arthur had sent back _Yeah, that'd be great, actually. As long as you don't mind how early my alarm goes off tomorrow morning...?_ , Eames had ducked into the mop closet and texted _don't mind at all_ while he waited for the mop bucket to fill. Because, really, he didn't. He was much more of a night owl than an early riser, and always had been, even before he'd trained his body to be used to dinner service and even closing pub shifts. But he could put up with Arthur's alarm beeping on the other side of the bed if it meant they could have a few more hours together, and Eames might be able to drift off to the sound of Arthur's voice. He was often happy to lie and listen to Arthur go on about whatever random subject he felt was worthy, partially because Eames nearly always felt he learned something, whether it was about sugar work, or the challenges inherent in gluten-free baking, or the influence of Alfred Hitchcock on French New Wave filmmakers like François Truffaut and Jean-Luc Godard.

Sometimes, when he listened, he was still somewhat amazed Arthur had given up his previous career entirely in order to go into the culinary field. He rarely got Arthur to talk about what he used to do, other than the fact that he had spent a lot of his time doing "research", but it was apparent he'd been good at it. Whenever Eames had pushed, he'd gotten a wry look and a mention of "an ass-load of non-disclosure and security agreements" before Arthur had steered him onto another topic. Eames got the feeling that, contract-mandated secrecy aside, Arthur would simply rather not talk about his former occupation because he hadn't enjoyed it the way he'd have liked.

He was also fond of listening to Arthur talk, simply because he'd been so damned resistant to doing so for the first few months they'd known each other. From everything Eames had been able to observe of Arthur since last August (and he did observe, because it was habit, and something he did often without thinking; characteristics got logged without conscious effort), Arthur was simply reserved and private--to a fault. It usually came off as snobbish and even rude, actually. So to know that something in Arthur considered him--and Ariadne--to be exceptions to his normal classification of the outside world, who got closed off and distanced from the internal workings of Arthur, made Eames inordinately pleased. For that reason alone, Eames felt he could happily listen to Arthur go on and on about virtually any subject.

Only tonight, he wondered if that were truly the case.

They had eaten straight from the take-away cartons, neither of them wanting to expend the energy or time required to make up plates which would later need to be washed, and settled into the sofa in the living room with the telly on afterwards. Eames's brain was suggesting sleep might be a good idea, but his body was still wired enough from his shift that he knew it would be another hour before he was even ready for that point. And, given how tired he had seemed when he'd arrived, Arthur also appeared wound up.

Eames had sprawled out on the sofa, one leg hooked over Arthur's, and Arthur's hands were moving up and down Eames's thigh with distracted energy. Eames was used to this, as it seemed to be a way for Arthur to vent his frustrations, usually over his internship. But as Eames listened, he couldn't help but wonder when the sudden change in Arthur's feelings about his position at the bakery had changed. This wasn't ranting. Not in the least.

"I should have taken pictures," Arthur said, his hands going still for a moment before they resumed lightly pressing and prodding at the muscles in Eames's thigh, somehow finding the bits of tension Eames hadn't been aware of until Arthur hit them. "Maybe they weren't all that impressive, given what you see on _Cupcake Wars_ and everything, but they were fun, and a lot better than the ones you always see at the grocery store, with the little plastic rings and stuff just stuck into the icing."

"So they let you help with one of the custom orders after all," Eames said, biting back on a groan when Arthur's thumb dug into a particularly tight knot. "Did you have to press them to allow you?"

Arthur shook his head. "No, actually. I saw Danny setting up, pulling all these piping bags in reds and greys and blues and black, and I asked him if he was doing nineties cartoon cupcakes or something. He just kind of looked at me and asked what I knew about _G.I. Joe_ and _Batman: The Animated Series_ , and then started laughing when my jaw dropped."

"Shows you watched, then?" Eames asked, his head flopping backwards against the back of the sofa. Perhaps he'd be ready for sleep a little earlier than he'd assumed.

"Shows I was practically _obsessed_ with," Arthur said with a chuckle. "I'd been into Batman forever, and that show was dark and _cool_. The art was cool, the music was cool, and even just the stories. It was like... the next level of my development, after beginning the first phase with a Batman theme for my fifth birthday party."

Eames couldn't help but laugh. He'd never seen pictures of Arthur as a child, but just the image of him, probably dressed in the light grey suit and bright blue cape, was so incongruous with the serious, reserved Arthur he knew... Actually, no, that might work. Maybe not with the Adam West Batman, but with the newer, broodier incarnations.

"What, you mean to tell me you didn't have, like, Batman sheets or underwear or anything?" Arthur asked, one eyebrow raised. "G.I. Joe I can understand, since you were in England, but come on."

"I have to admit, I was never much of a Batman fan," Eames said. Arthur's hands stilled.

"I'm not going to hold that against you," Arthur said, after a long moment. "Because it's not as if you said you'd like to murder my childhood hero. Besides, we've already run into a bunch of other differences that can be attributed to geographical or age discrepancies."

"I'm not _that_ much older than you are," Eames said, raising his eyebrows. "No need to make me sound ancient. Two years is nothing, in the grand scheme of things."

"No, but it's funny how that stuff makes such a difference, as far as pop culture is concerned," Arthur pointed out. In that, he had a point. While living in London, Eames had had a roommate who was only three years older than he was and the youngest of four brothers, and the number of shows or toys one remembered and the other did not had been surprisingly high. "That's why it's so great to have people at my internship who are the same age, who were into the same things as a kid. Half the students at Pacifica are either right out of high school, or in their forties."

"True enough."

"But this morning, I mean, Christie started talking about Power Rangers, since she'd gotten an order for those next week, and then Danny and I started rehashing Batman villains, and we found out this other guy, Kevin, has a startlingly vast amount of knowledge of Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy, and it was just sort of one of those mornings where work flies by. Even Charlie didn't seem as annoying."

"The supervisor you'd thought about flinging into the oven?" Eames snorted. "There's a definite change." He was positive, from all Arthur had ranted before tonight, that the man's behavior hadn't changed so much as Arthur's overall feeling of his work environment.

"Yeah, I guess." Arthur's hands went back to working on Eames's leg, now around the knee. "Any good conversations like that with the guys you work with?"

Eames thought about it. There wasn't always a lot of opportunity for actual back-and-forth conversation, especially once dinner service started. That sort of thing was possible before they really got going on the line, before the fryers and grills were busy and things were sizzling in pans and orders were being called back from the pass. But because of his timetable, Eames had very few shifts where it was quiet enough to converse during prep. "Not a lot of conversation, in general. More... interesting moments."

"What kind of interesting?"

"Well, tonight, we had a brief lull, right before we were inundated with large parties. And Hollywood--"

"There's a guy named 'Hollywood' in your kitchen?"

"Says the fellow called 'Cream Puff'," Eames replied, squeezing his leg down against Arthur's. Sitting up to nudge him required more energy than Eames really thought he had at the moment. "He's worked there for two years. Rumor has it he's had roles in..." He paused, until Arthur nudged his leg. "In a number of adult films." When Arthur snorted, Eames went on. "As I was saying. Hollywood appears to have this habit of taking on any bet or dare for financial gain."

"Like what, rapidly poking a knife between his fingers and trying not to stab himself in the hand?"

Eames had a mental image of that, suddenly certain that the bloke would do it, if anyone ever mentioned it, and probably for a ludicrously low amount of money. He sincerely hoped no one else ever came up with that suggestion, because he didn't fancy the thought of having to cover double duty on the saute or fish station and have to sanitize the entire place while someone took Hollywood to the E.R. to get patched up. "No. Not tonight, anyway. Tonight, someone bet him he wouldn't lick his shoe for ten dollars."

"His _kitchen_ shoe?" Arthur asked, sounding about as nauseated as Eames had felt while watching the whole thing.

"Yes. He actually did it. Slipped it off, licked the sole quite theatrically, replaced the shoe, took the cash, washed his hands, and went right back to work."

"That's _disgusting_."

"Agreed. But do you mean to tell me no one in your kitchen's a bit off, other than naming you all after pastries?"

Arthur paused. "Okay. There was a moment, during my first full shift, that made me question the general sanity of the staff."

"Do tell," Eames said, then moaned just a little when Arthur reached down to grab Eames's other leg and bring it into his lap. He shifted so that he wasn't awkwardly contorted, his head now resting on the arm of the sofa. "But keep doing that."

Arthur hummed a little laugh. "Well, Danny was showing me how to get the rack in and out of their main oven. It's one of those ones where you wheel the whole rack into it and latch it onto the mechanism at the top, and that lifts it off the ground and rotates it while things bake."

"I know the sort." He'd figured it was the sort Arthur had meant, once he'd mentioned having the mental image of flinging his supervisor into the oven, reminiscent of _Sweeney Todd_.

"Right. Well, theirs has this trick, because they had to modify one of the racks, so it's a half-inch taller, and it gets stuck if you don't--never mind, that's not important. Anyway, he was showing me how to get it in, then going over the different functions on the control panel, and Sarah hip-checked him out of the way so she could wedge herself into the recessed window panel."

"Warming herself?" Eames had seen a number of people in one of his first kitchens, which had had a similar-style oven, do such.

"Yeah, actually. She'd been in the freezer for a while, looking for something. But I'd never have thought of doing that, and I guess I gave her a weird look."

"Is that what made you question the staff's sanity?"

"No," Arthur said, now shifting himself to lounge more fully, Eames's legs still in his lap and his hands still lightly massaging. "That moment came when Danny told me they'd once had a contest to see who could stand inside the oven the longest, with it at three-fifty."

Eames chuckled, idly wondering how much he'd regret it in the morning if they both fell asleep like this, here on the sofa. "I bet that was unpleasant." At the very least, he assumed the tips of one's ears and nose would start to burn, and one's eyes would dry, even after a very brief moment. "Didn't get far into the contest?"

"Seventeen seconds," Arthur told him. "Danny has the record of seventeen seconds. Charlie had fourteen. A guy who used to work there had thirteen. And Gemma had ten." He shook his head. "Gemma claims she might have at least matched Charlie, if she hadn't brushed the back of her hand against the frame and burned herself. And all I could think, as I listened to them recount this story way too proudly, was 'these are totally Eames's people'."

Eames chuckled. "I'm not sure whether to be offended or not by that."

"Whatever," Arthur told him. "You work with a guy who licked his kitchen shoe for ten bucks. At least Danny's not that nuts."

"He's the one who challenged you over your cupcake-icing ability, isn't he?" Yawning, Eames slouched further into the upholstery of the sofa.

"Yeah. But he's not as bad as I thought. Actually, he's not bad at all. And I'm not just saying that because he taught me how to do buttercream transfers for those Batman cupcakes today." That, of course, only brought Arthur back around to telling Eames more about his experience, and how much fun it had been to actually work on a project _for_ someone, with someone else who was enjoying the task.

It took Eames rather a lot longer than he'd expected to drift off that night, even with Arthur's voice next to him in the dark. There was an uneasiness he couldn't quite put his finger on, and it made his stomach feel odd in a way that had nothing to do with the take-away meal. But the more Arthur told him about his internship and coworkers, the more Eames felt something was off.

It was almost... almost like jealousy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...My apologies for the fact that my subconscious is apparently a troll. The Batman conversation happened without my conscious brain linking THard!Eames and JGL!Arthur to TDKR and the actors' respective roles, and it took me an additional two weeks to even remember JGL had been in GI Joe, as I've never seen the film. IDEK. Please forgive me XD
> 
> Snagged another 20 minutes of pre-work coffee shop internet, so two more chapters get posted today. Won't have coffee shop time tomorrow, but we'll see if I can't arrange something, or even get a larger number of chapters posted next time. I just want this thing marked as "complete!" You're all lovely for being so patient with the posting. *hugs and cupcakes for everyone*


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, it's been months since I last put up a chapter. I'm hoping that won't happen again. I'm actually posting things by phone (a chapter of this, two short fics in other fandoms) today, and have a bunch of other stuff that needs to go up, which will make it up before too much time passes. Sorry if anyone thought this might have been abandoned. That is very much not the case. It's simply a matter of having had some rather complicated/frustrating/draining things occur IRL for the last several months, and basically not having had computer/internet time almost at all. All 33 chapters WILL be posted, with no ridiculously large gaps in time, from here on out, if I can help it. Again, so sorry, and thanks for sticking with it! I love you guys!
> 
> ~~~

There were some days, Arthur knew, where he'd have to suck it up and work on things he didn't particularly enjoy as an intern. Consolidating the items shelved in the freezer was certainly at the top of that list. The rest of the list consisted of two kinds of tasks: deep-cleaning and monthly sanitation tasks, and monotonous projects.

Today, though, Arthur almost ( _almost_ ) wanted to hug Charlie for giving him the task of costing out and cut-testing a potential cake mix a vendor had been pushing on them for the last four months. Because, while scooping a few hundred cupcakes into lined cupcake pans was boring as hell, it was also work Arthur could do when he felt like a damn zombie.

Actually, Arthur thought he might _look_ a little like a zombie today. He'd had a really late night, between a little fooling around with Eames before forcing himself home to get some actual sleep, and then remembering he hadn't finished an assignment for Regional American Cuisine, once had _had_ gotten home. Staying up to finish that had left him with only two hours of sleep, and Arthur knew he had dark circles under his eyes. If he hadn't seen them in the mirror himself this morning, standing out against his paler-than-usual skin, he would have been alerted by Gemma's low whistle and inquiry as to whether he'd had an all-nighter or if he'd been victim to someone putting shoe polish on the eyepieces of a set of binoculars, not thirty seconds after he'd tied his apron around his waist and turned on the water to wash his hands. And if even _he_ noticed that he could do little more than drag himself around the kitchen, steps shuffling a little because he didn't have the energy to actually lift his feet, then Arthur was certain everyone else had noticed, too.

The fact that he had smears of bright red cake batter across the chest and waist of his uniform and streaks of it up and down his bare forearms was just a little extra touch, adding to the effect. Icing on the cake, so to speak.

Arthur caught a flash of skin and white linen at his side, his brain registering the existence of faded blue-black tattoo ink long before it translated the shape and text of it as something he should recognize, as someone stepped beside him, dropping a giant plastic Lexan of whole apples onto the table with a loud bang.

"Mind if I join you in monotonous fucking kitchen tasks?" Danny's voice said, only barely making it through to what currently passed for Arthur's consciousness. He paused for a moment, then seemed to realize Arthur was paying more attention to the ink on his left arm than he was to what he was saying. He tugged at the sleeve of his plain white T-shirt, and Arthur realized the lack of chef's coat was why he was able to see his co-worker's tattoo when he never had before. "It's not what you think it is," Danny mumbled, as Arthur tried to blink and look up and not seem like a total creeper for staring at his bicep for way too long.

"It's not Elvish script?" Arthur asked, trying like hell to remember what that particular bit of text meant. He recognized it, he knew he did.

"Well, okay," Danny mumbled. "It _is_ , but it's not the Ring's inscription, okay? Just forget it." He scratched at his shoulder, the movement disturbing his sleeve for a second, and Arthur caught sight of very thin, readable lettering on Danny's tricep, joining the script to make a band around his arm.

" _I amar prestar aen_ ," Arthur murmured to himself, reaching out to move his stack of cupcake pans out of the way so Danny could put his small stainless steel bowl down in front of him, and then it seemed to click. "The world is changed?" He flicked his eyes up to Danny's face for verification.

Danny just stared at him, wide-eyed, until Arthur self-consciously rubbed his nose with the inside of his elbow, in case he had something there. "Well, holy shit," Danny laughed softly after shaking his head. "You're a Tolkien geek."

"I'm not a--" Arthur started to say defensively, until he realized he was defending himself against someone who had actual Elvish--Sindarin--permanently tattooed onto his body. "Okay, fine, maybe a little."

"Never would have guessed," Danny said, still grinning. "You don't exactly fit the stereotype."

"Neither do you," Arthur pointed out. Danny was his height, but looked like he slotted in somewhere between _frat boy_ and _surfer_ \--someone who got regular sun, who worked out often (especially given the appearance of his arms, which Arthur had never actually noticed until now), and who either had impeccable genes for bone structure and teeth, or whose parents could afford the plastic surgeon and orthodontist. He wasn't blond, but his brown hair was light enough to _almost_ make the cut.

"What, you figured the former high school lacrosse team captain, current baker, couldn't also be a straight-A student and lover of epic fantasies?" Danny said, smirking a little. "That maybe the tattoo wasn't some drunken decision made when Peter Jackson was killing the box office, but had been planned for a long time before that?"

Quite honestly, no, Arthur hadn't thought that, but he'd never actually given too much thought to what Danny was really _like_ , outside of his position at Touch of Sweet. Arthur raised his eyebrows, smartass tone making an appearance out of habit more than anything. "What, next you're going to tell me you live with your mom and DM a D and D group every Friday night, in addition to sporting an angsty line of lament?"

Danny snorted. "Live on my own. No Dungeons and Dragons. Brief interest in _Magic: The Gathering_ , but those days are best left forgotten. But the Tolkien appreciation is for life." Setting down the vegetable peeler and turning to face Arthur directly, Danny lifted his other sleeve. In ink that was darker, but not brand new, was another bit of Elvish script, a small blue and white star underneath.

"And that one...?" Arthur asked, because there was no lettering to accompany it that he could see, and he was not nearly up on his Elvish enough these days to read it fluently...not that he had ever been in the first place.

" _O môr henion i dhû_ ," Danny said, once again picking up an apple and the peeler. "From darkness I understand the night."

"Dreams flow, a star shines," Arthur replied, an old bit of music in his head. He hadn't watched the movies in years, though he'd been thinking of a rewatch lately; however, he knew that if he tried he'd end up wasting most of a day that should probably be spent on school. He couldn't help a small laugh. "Oh my God, you're a romantic."

Danny elbowed him. "Shut up, you'll ruin my reputation."

"What, the Elvish tattoos don't?"

"Says the guy who can quote the next line of _Aniron_ without difficulty."

"Touché." Arthur picked up his ice cream scoop and slowly went back to portioning batter for the ridiculously large batch of red velvet cupcakes. They were going to take weeks to go through all of these. God bless industrial freezers and full-sheet-sized plastic bags.

"So, have you seen it yet?" Danny asked after a few moments of near-silence as they worked.

Arthur didn't even look up, half-afraid he'd drop a full scoop of batter directly onto the table if he didn't pay attention. This was a level of tired he hadn't been in a long time, and general functioning was surprisingly difficult. "What?"

" _The Hobbit,_ " Danny said, sounding like he was wondering if Arthur had suddenly gone stupid. He had, sort of, being this exhausted, but he didn't necessarily like it being so obvious.

"Oh. No, I haven't." It wasn't that he didn't want to. He did, quite a lot. He just wasn't much for seeing big-budget movies alone, and Eames had very politely tried to let Arthur know he had no interest at all when it had been mentioned. Arthur had tried not to look personally insulted when Eames had finally confessed that he'd never read _The Hobbit_ , that he thought _The Lord of the Rings_ films were all much too long and sort of painful, and that he didn't enjoy Tolkien's writing style. It was worse than Eames saying he'd never really been into Batman.

"You want to?"

Arthur paused in his scooping. "Huh?"

Shaking his head, Danny huffed a small laugh. "It's not a complicated question. Do you want to come see _The Hobbit_ this weekend or next? I saw it opening day, but I've been dying to see it again, preferably with someone who knows the actual story, as Tolkien wrote it."

It took Arthur approximately two-thirds of a second to think about it. "Yeah, that sounds great."

Danny smiled hugely. "Awesome. Hey, give me your number before you leave today, since you're off tomorrow, and we can figure it out. Maybe go out for a beer or pizza or something after, discuss the movie and all."

"Definitely," Arthur said, unable to help smiling back and feeling that taking this internship was turning out to be a lot better than he'd expected.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, many people have asked, but no, this isn't abandoned/discontinued. I had the whole fic written and just about to go off to beta (there were a few little tidbits to a few of the last chapters I wanted to add, to more cleanly get things done, and I was working on that, since I didn't have reliable internet access), when my computer crashed, and I lost EVERYTHING--the rest of this fic, jotted-down plots for about 125 fics, and just over 20 fics already in progress/in various states of completion. I was able to recover a handful of them, through various means, but all I had left of this in the end was the chapter-by-chapter outline, and some snippets of the fic. It...took a really long time to be able to get the mental and emotional energy to be able to completely re-write the lost 30k or so, and I've just now reached that point. So. Here we go.
> 
> (Guess which girl has taken to saving everything fairly obsessively to an external hard drive, these days? Yep, that's right, this one.)

Eames was aware that, of thei two residences, Arthur preferred spending time in the large house in which he currently lived, but there was definitely something to be said for the location of Arthur's flat. It was closer to campus, on public transit routes and, small though it was in comparison, it just _felt_ more personal. As Eames sometimes felt that the house was much too large for just himself, he did look forward to the occasional stay in Arthur's flat.

Even with the definite lack of kitchen space and equipment. 

"It's not a terrible place," Eames said, shaking his head as they walked through the front door. He toed off his shoes and placed his bag onto the floor, tucking it under the small table Arthur kept near his front door. It hadn't taken a lot of thought to realize Arthur had a particular way of doing things and preferred things to be kept neat. Though Eames felt welcome enough at the flat, he did make certain not to intrude too much or disrupt Arthur's preferred way of living. "It's really not bad, all things considered."

"Yeah, well, it's nothing like your house," Arthur muttered, setting his own bag in its usual spot by the bookshelf and setting the bag of takeaway on the kitchen counter. 

"Like the house in which I currently stay, by the grace of a friend," Eames corrected. He'd likely never afford a house even _half_ the size of Niko's, even somewhere less expensive than Los Angeles or any of the outlying areas. 

Arthur waved off the correction and began opening cupboards and drawers, getting plates and utensils ready. Eames was surprised he was even bothering. They'd increasingly resorted to eating straight from the containers using only a pair of chopsticks apiece, their legs half tangled together as they lounged on the sofa. Walking away when Arthur casually shooed him out of the kitchen, Eames made to settle himself onto the sofa when something on the coffee table caught his eye. 

"Arthur?" he called, moving aside the magazine that covered one corner of the thick ivory paper. "Were you going to this wedding?" He pictured Arthur briefly in a suit and tie and grinned. It would definitely be a good look on him.

"What?" Arthur popped his head around the corner. "What are you—? Oh. No, I'm not going. It's the weekend before midterms. I'd have to book a hotel room. Plus, I'd have to buy plane tickets, because I'm not sure my car would approve of the drive. It's six hours each way."

Eames raised his eyebrows. "You certainly have a list of reasons not to go. I assume this friend isn't close enough for that sort of monetary and time expenditure?"

Arthur stepped into the living room, carrying two plates of food. "I used to work with both of them. They're nice people. But it's not like anyone will miss me, if I don't go. I'm just going to send a gift—they're still going to be living in L.A." Arthur sat beside him and picked up his fork. "Why did you ask, anyway?"

Eames shrugged and snagged one of the pairs of chopsticks Arthur had tossed onto the coffee table. He hadn't actually met any of Arthur's friends yet, or even heard about them. Arthur might not be exceptionally gregarious, but he wasn't _completely_ antisocial and misanthropic, either. He had to have _some_ friends, didn't he? "I thought it might be nice to see you dressed up in a suit."

With a scoff, Arthur sank down onto the sofa. "If you want to see me in a suit, we can just go out somewhere nice sometime. Maybe after the semester's over."

Trying to ignore the way Arthur had so firmly dismissed the topic, Eames nodded, feeling only a little better for the fact that Arthur had made mention of some time a few months away, as if he simply assumed they'd be together for a while in the future. 

They ate dinner without much in the way of conversation, some sitcom neither of them were really watching playing on low on the television. Normally, they chatted during meals, about all manner of things—at the very least, about classes or how their days had gone. There was none of that this evening, and Eames had the unsettling feeling that something was up with Arthur, though he couldn't place anything in particular. He just...didn't seem quite himself. He seemed easily distracted, and Eames wondered what was going on in that head of his. Whatever it was, Arthur didn't appear eager to share.

By the time leftovers were put away, the long week was catching up to both of them. Arthur had that glazed-over look Eames knew all too well, and he himself didn't feel he was faring much better. He clicked the television off, catching Arthur's eye. "Bed?"

"Yeah."

They slipped into Arthur's queen-sized bed together, and Eames had just closed his eyes in the dark when he heard a familiar sound from the ceiling—the somewhat rhythmic thudding of Arthur's upstairs neighbor's bedframe against one of the walls. Which meant it was only a matter of time before...

"Fuck," Arthur muttered into his pillow as his neighbor began the vocal theatrics.

Eames himself tried to contain a smirk. He'd heard Arthur complain before about how his neighbor had a very active sex life, which wouldn't be so bad if she weren't also the type to scream during said activities, and he'd heard it a small handful of times before tonight. The one thing Arthur was right about, in complaining about his flat, was that the walls really were a bit thin. 

Arthur made another exasperated noise and fidgeted, and Eames scooted closer, his mouth just behind Arthur's ear. "You know, this time, instead of trying to ignore her, we could always give her a run for her money?"

"I'm too tired to do anything that active," Arthur mumbled.

"Well, you could always lie there, and I could do all the work," Eames tried, letting his voice go suggestive and flirty. He still couldn't quite forget Ariadne's off-handed comment a few weeks ago. She may have been tipsy, but something about it hit a place he hadn't really known was tender until that moment. It wasn't as if he and Arthur were never intimate—God knew that wasn't the case—but certain facts still remained. Arthur had brushed him off a handful of times when Eames made particular advances or offers, and it was getting more difficult to ignore. He might simply have brushed it off as Arthur just not being into a select few things, but they'd had discussions that clearly stated that wasn't the issue. Arthur was so intense about a lot of things, and Eames honestly just wanted to show him that he deserved to be taken care of. In more than one way.

"Not tonight, Eames," Arthur sighed, an edge of irritation in his voice. "It's after eleven, and I have to be up at three. Besides, that's something eighteen-year-old college students do. We're too old for a loud sex competition."

Eames tried not to wince at that. Arthur seemed oblivious to having said anything hurtful, and Eames tried very hard to attribute it to Arthur's obvious exhaustion, and not a lack of caring about hurting someone he was dating.

"Right," he said softly, shifting underneath the blankets. "Sorry." The mumbled, wordless response he got in return indicated Arthur was already mostly asleep, dropping off within the space of seconds, but it did little to soothe Eames's feeling of rejection. 

He settled into a position that was comfortable enough in which to sleep, almost indescribably grateful that instead of an annoyed grunt or shoving him away, Arthur simply let out a soft, pleased-sounding sigh when Eames reflexively kissed the back of Arthur's neck. And even though he also shifted back into Eames, just a little, when he draped his arm over Arthur's side, Eames found that sleep didn't come for him nearly as quickly as he hoped it would.


	17. Chapter 17

Arthur struggled upwards into consciousness once the sound of his phone's ringtone permeated the shroud of sleep he'd somehow become wrapped in. It took a moment for his eyes to focus enough to read the display; by the time he recognized Ariadne's name on the screen, the call had already gone through to voicemail. He groaned and sat up, his Regional American Cuisine textbook sliding off his chest and onto the floor, and rubbed his face. It was only six-thirty at night. He shouldn't be asleep right now. He hadn't even had dinner, let alone gone through all the topics he'd planned to study before bed. 

His phone rang again, and Arthur accepted the call, sinking back onto the couch with his eyes closed. He was going to pay for falling asleep here, he could already tell. His neck was stiff in a way that seemed like it might stick around a while. "Hello?"

"Arthur?"

"Hey, Ariadne. What's up?"

"I...did I wake you? Shit, I'm sorry, I—"

"Hey, no, I'm up," he said, sitting back up and dropping his feet over the side of the couch to rest on the floor. There was something definitely wrong. He could hear it in her voice, the obvious distress. "What's going on?" She didn't reply for a moment, and in that pause, Arthur could hear a shaky breath and muffled sniffle. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." 

He might be sleep -deprived, but he knew a lie when he heard one. "No, seriously. What's wrong?" He was more awake with each second, worry already gnawing at him and breaking through the heavy feeling in his head and body. He had a brief vision of her sitting in a wrecked car on the side of the road and tried to get rid of it. "Do you need help? Are you hurt?"

"No, I'm fine. It's nothing like that." This time, he could hear the waver in her voice. He was about to press again when she cleared her throat. "Jim broke up with me. That's all."

"Shit," he breathed, more to himself than to her. "I'm sorry." He hadn't particularly cared for the guy, but Ariadne had seemed to like him, and Arthur couldn't think of an instance where anyone had enjoyed breaking up. 

"Yeah, no, I don't know why I..." She trailed off, and the wobble in her voice made something in Arthur's chest constrict just a little. "Never mind. Sorry I called and woke you. I just...I thought I needed to talk to someone, but I don't even...I'll just see you Monday, okay?" 

She hung up on him before he could even assure her it was fine that she'd called, let alone before he could try to figure out what to say that might be of any comfort. Not that he was ever any good at comforting anyone for any reason that didn't involve him laying out logical facts and probabilities. 

He stared at his phone for a moment, trying to work out what he could say when he called back. In his periphery, the television flickered, the volume low, and he reached for the remote to mute it entirely or turn it off before he dialed. It was just one of those cake shows Ariadne loved to hate, and had been for the last two hours, since he'd put something on for background noise while he studied. Some damn marathon of the things, pre-empting his usual Alton Brown episode. 

He paused. He had to be up really early in the morning for a long shift at Touch of Sweet and, if he was actually listening to his body, he should probably just eat something and climb into bed. He knew that. It was the logical decision. It made the most sense.

"Oh, fuck it," he muttered, turning the television off and grabbing his car keys instead. Even he could recognize that logic wasn't always the best thing to follow. Logic wouldn't have him slipping on his shoes and a jacket instead of removing his clothes and sliding under the covers. It certainly wouldn't have him drive ten minutes across town, pausing halfway to duck into a liquor store and snag a bottle of white zinfandel. 

Friendship would, though.

He had to bang on the door of Ariadne's apartment twice, wondering in the long moments after the second knock if she had maybe gone to sleep, or stepped into the shower, or had decided to blast music while wearing headphones, but she finally answered, looking more than a little surprised. "What are you doing here?"

He took in her red-rimmed eyes, blotchy nose, and thick voice, trying not to feel like he might best serve her by tracking that Jim asshole down to beat some sense into him, and held up the bottle of wine in his hand. "There's a _Cake Boss_ marathon on for the next three and a half hours."

Ariadne blinked at him. "I did say last semester that I'd have you over sometime for wine and cake shows, didn't it?" she asked after a moment, staring at him like he was half-crazy and she couldn't quite believe he was standing in front of her, still holding the bottle.

"You did."

"Then I guess you should come in." She opened the door wide enough to let him through. "Let me get a couple of glasses. Make yourself comfortable, I guess. There's no one else here right now." She joined him on the couch a few moments later, two glasses and a corkscrew in her hands. Arthur took the glass she poured him and settled back against the cushions. Unless she wanted otherwise, he wasn't leaving until all three and a half hours were up.

"I'm sorry I bothered you," she said softly a few minutes into the first episode they'd turned on. "I don't even know how to really explain what's going on in my head, or anything else."

"Then don't," Arthur said simply. "Talk if you want, Ariadne, but I'm not here to drag details out of you." He took a sip of his wine and put it on the table, noting the lack of coasters and trying not to twitch at the thought of rings on the wood laminate. He turned towards her more and caught her eye. "I'm just here to hang out." He might not have much in the way of actual advice, or words that would really help, but he could at least be here and be a friend, if she wasn't opposed to it.

"You probably shouldn't have bothered," she mumbled into her wine glass, curling up on the sofa and tucking her legs underneath her. "I'm not going to be good company."

Arthur sighed. He wished he was better at this sort of thing. Eames was a hundred times better at this. Arthur bet he'd know exactly what to say and what to do. But he wasn't here. If Ariadne had even tried to get a hold of him—and Arthur thought the chances she had were better than fair—Eames was at his internship, where he'd be until after eleven tonight, if patterns held. "You're always good company, Ariadne," he said, settling back in a little and knocking his shoulder against hers. "Because you're you." She made a small, squeaking noise, but shifted closer, leaning her head against his shoulder, and he draped one arm around her, giving her a small squeeze he hoped was comforting. It must have been okay, because he felt her relax and let more of her weight rest against him. He let her get situated, then huffed towards the television. "What do you think the odds are that that cake collapses unless he changes that design a little to accommodate the weight of the motor?"

Ariadne snorted into his shoulder. "At least eighty percent. But that's assuming he can even get the thing to work without the rotation being too fast." Arthur laughed and pulled her in a little closer, glad the redirection hadn't been the wrong course of action. He didn't want to make her dwell on whatever the hell had happened. If she wanted to talk, he'd be happy to listen, but he didn't want to force her to wallow in sadness or anything else along those lines. God knew _he_ coped best with distraction and something productive to focus on.

"He made it sound like a date, tonight," she said almost an hour later as another episode went to commercial, the first thing she'd said unrelated to the show in the same span of time. "Like that's why he was coming over. But instead he just got here and launched right into it. He said there were a lot—and he stressed the _a lot_ part—of reasons why he was dumping me, but he never actually told me what any of them were. He didn't even try to ease into it. Just, bam, you suck in a hundred ways, we're over, and then he walked right back out. Which, I mean, that would have been pretty shitty anyway, but I'd been looking forward to the date, to getting out, after what happened with Miranda."

"Your roommate?" Arthur remembered her. And he couldn't say he'd ever been impressed or especially fond of the girl, an opinion that hadn't been helped much with Ariadne's recent confession in the hall at school.

"Yeah, you've met her a few times, right? We'd just had this really long fight, and she'd called me a selfish bitch and told me not to expect to hear from her for a few days and stormed out. And Jim called literally two minutes after that and said we should see each other tonight, so I thought maybe my night was going to turn around. And then...yeah."

Arthur winced. "I'm sorry. I wish your night had gone better." He did wish that, but those weren't the right words. He wished no one had hurt her, for starters, or that she had better people in her life, over all. He felt protective of her in a way he'd felt with very few people, ever. 

Ariadne made a huffing noise that was something nearly like a laugh. "It's already better now than I thought it could be, a couple of hours ago." She lifted her head and attempted a smile. It was crooked and weak, and Arthur hated that she looked so unhappy. She was an amazing girl and definitely deserved better than the asshole she'd been dumped by. "Thanks," she murmured, laying her head back down on his shoulder.

"Anytime." He meant it, too, and hoped it was apparent. He wasn't going to get anything _remotely_ approaching significant or useful sleep, but there were worse things. He was trying to figure out when he might be able to sneak in a trip to get an energy drink or two between classes or after his internship in the morning when he realized Ariadne had fallen asleep with her head on his chest, one of her hands underneath her cheek and the fingers of the other curled around the hem of his T-shirt. 

He really should go home and attempt to get at least a couple of hours of napping in, but he couldn't bear to make her move. Instead, he shifted so his legs were elevated enough that his back wouldn't lock up, taking care not to disturb Ariadne. He was pretty sure he didn't show those he actually _did_ care about how much they meant to him nearly often enough. He'd never really cared about making that message clear before. But between the relationship that was developing between him and Eames and the friendship that grew stronger between him and Ariadne with every new week, Arthur felt that it was something he could stand to work on. He kissed her forehead lightly and rested his cheek on the top of her head, listening to her light, regular breathing, and let himself start to drift.

Lack of sleep or not, he was glad he'd shown up here tonight, able to be a friend when one was needed. Whether or not he'd ever been good at showing it, there were some relationships that were worth a bit of sacrifice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See! An update! I really do swear this hasn't been abandoned!
> 
> Although, after losing the entire last half of the fic once already, and then taking a LOT of time to be able to get myself to rewrite the remaining/unposted ~20 chapters, I opened up THIS re-written chapter to send to beta about two weeks ago...and found that, though it had been fine 4 hours prior, the file was corrupted and was 67 solid pages of those stupid little white squares, instead of at least that many pages of fic. So I RE-re-wrote it. Because GDI, I will get this thing finished (again) and posted, or die trying.


	18. Chapter 18

After a night of getting his arse handed to him—and he was far from alone in that, as they'd all been struggling to keep out of the weeds for the vast majority of dinner service—Eames really just wanted to get out of Exquis, go home, shower, and collapse into bed. They'd been down a man for the night, and the shortage had taken its toll. 

The next time Eames saw Hollywood, he might have to resist the urge to shake him a bit. Whatever he had licked off his shoe the other night had apparently hit him back with a vengeance—hard enough to keep him out of the kitchen for at least two shifts. It served him right, but Eames was still fairly certain the bloke would be back to doing other equally stupid things for money by the time whatever pathogens he'd contracted were out of his system.

"Anything else you need, Chef?" Eames asked his supervisor, hands already on the apron strings at his back, just itching to undo them and toss it into the hamper. He was sincerely hoping for a no and a quick dismissal, as was the usual routine, and tried not to show his disappointment when the response was not the standard one.

"Actually, yeah. You got plans for next Thursday?"

Eames hesitated. Next Thursday was Valentine's Day. He and Arthur hadn't actually _discussed_ that evening, though Eames had the pretty clear feeling that Arthur wasn't the extravagant Valentine's celebratory type. 

Phalen didn't fail to notice. "I see you hesitating there, Eames. Look. I know you're in some sort of relationship with someone, but you didn't ask for the time off when we took you on. It falls on one of your usual shifts, and I really need you to be here."

"No, I know, Chef." He did, too. If there was one thing he was quite aware of regarding holidays in the industry, it was that one _never_ assumed you had the day off. In fact, the opposite assumption was much safer. Until he'd started at Pacifica and stopped working full-time in kitchens, Eames hadn't actually had any significant holiday off in at least half a decade, or even closer to the whole decade. "I'd be happy to work next Thursday. It's a big night for business." At Phalen's wry chuckle, Eames pressed on. "I could even come in a bit earlier than usual, if you'd have need of me."

It couldn't hurt to go the extra mile, especially as Eames was likely to ask for a recommendation or reference from his supervisor once his time here was over. Not to mention, this was the man who would be filling out his internship evaluation. 

"Let me get back to you on actual shift hours tomorrow. But yeah, I'd plan on earlier than usual, if you're able. Place is a fucking madhouse, every goddamn year. Only ones who have it worse than us are the ones who have to deal with taking reservations and turning people away at the door who think they can waltz right into a place like this on one of the busiest nights of the year. Everyone's free post-shift drink allotment doubles on Valentine's Day, out of goddamned necessity." Phalen looked at his watch. "Now get the hell out of here, I've kept you late enough as it is. Good job trying to keep pace tonight and fill in the holes Hollywood left us. And if you see that moron trying to lick anything else full of God-only-knows-what bacteria, do whatever you have to, to save him from himself. I don't want to go through this shit again."

Eames chuckled and gave the chef a salute, heading straight for the bin with the dirty aprons in order to deposit his amongst them. It felt like such a relief to toss his own atop the pile, another barrier between him and his bed removed. 

Even with the kitchen and front of house fully staffed, Eames knew next Thursday would be even more exhausting and stressful. The fact that he had volunteered himself for the extra hours had, he hoped, shown his willingness to take one for the team, as it were. He hadn't planned on doing it ahead of time, but he didn't regret being given the opportunity to demonstrate his flexibility and understanding of the kitchen's needs. He knew he could find a decent job in Los Angeles—or anywhere else—if he were to simply quit his pursuit of a degree from Pacifica tomorrow, based solely on his previous experience. But it didn't hurt to make a good impression on the head chef in one of the better restaurants in the city, with the simple sacrifice of an evening he hadn't expected to have free in the first place.

He could break it to Arthur—who, Eames was certain, understood about doing what needed to be done to advance within a career—later, if it needed to be broken at all.


	19. Chapter 19

It was a pity that not all sessions of the Intro to Beer, Wine, and Spirits class involved the consumption of actual alcohol. Because after the week he'd been having, Arthur definitely could have done with a drink or two. Or three. 

He half-slid, half-collapsed into his seat next to Eames, slinging his messenger bag onto the empty chair to his right as he tipped his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes for a moment. "Thank fucking God that, at least in this class, I don't have to deal with all the heart-shaped cutesy bullshit I get at work. Seriously, you should _see_ the shipment of red, white, and pink sprinkles we've been working through the last couple of weeks. I'm ready to gouge my eyes out with a freaking flower nail if it'll mean I don't have to deal with hearts and roses anymore."

He opened his eyes to see Eames giving him a strange sort of look, then realized how that all must have come off. "I'm not against the whole love and romance thing, obviously," he hastily amended, although there were limits to the level of PDA he was comfortable with, if he was honest. "I'm just tired of the whole decorative theme." He hesitated for a moment. They hadn't actually discussed any sort of plans for Valentine's Day. He figured it was because they both knew their internships would need them working, but what if he'd been wrong, and it was just some boyfriend test he'd been failing? It seemed like the sort of thing he'd be wrong to take for granted. "Did...did you want to do something, for Thursday?" Arthur asked, trying to think through what their schedules were usually like. He was pretty sure Eames would have mentioned being given the night off, especially on what had to be a busy night at the restaurant, but maybe he'd asked for it off, since he was dating someone and expected them to have plans together.

It was more than a little bit of a relief when Eames shook his head, looking apologetic in his own right. "Can't. I've got a shift at Exquis, same as usual. But I've got the next night off for a change, since we'll be comparatively dead, and I'm pulling extra hours on Thursday." He looked ready to say something else, but whatever it might have been was cut off by Saito's voice calling them all to attention in order to begin the lecture. 

Arthur's been mulling it over for a good thirty-five minutes, only half-paying attention to the evening's lecture, when Saito paused to pull up a video on his laptop and play it on the projector. "Hey," he said quietly to Eames, when it became apparent they had a quick moment before the lecture resumed. "Do you maybe want to do something the night of the fifteenth instead? Since we'll both be off, and I don't have to be in at the bakery quite as early on Saturday?"

Eames gave him a slow grin, looking both surprised and pleased, and nodded. "Yeah. That would be nice."

Arthur smiled back. "Maybe we could go out. Have someone else prepare the food, you know? Make it a real date. We haven't really had a lot of time for those, lately." That was a fucking understatement. Arthur didn't think they'd actually been on something resembling an official date since the new semester had started. They certainly hadn't done the usual couple thing of dinner and a movie. Any meals they'd had together had been either prepared by one of them, or had been carryout or delivery from one of a half-dozen places around Arthur's apartment. Hell, the last movie Arthur had seen had been when he'd gone out with Danny; they'd even gotten lunch from a place nearby, just burgers and fries, while they'd dissected the movie and the book it had been based upon. It was sort of sad that the last date-like thing Arthur had done had been with someone other than his boyfriend. He hoped it would be better once their summer break was upon them, but that didn't mean they couldn't put in a little effort here and there, even when school was in session. 

"Sounds perfect." He nudged Arthur's foot with his own as Saito's video presentation started up, giving Arthur one last grin before turning his attention to the screen at the front of the room, and Arthur nudged back, glad to have that settled in a way that seemed satisfactory.

Though he was exhausted by the time he was able to climb into bed that night, Arthur couldn't quite keep from trying to figure out what sort of thing he and Eames could do on Friday night. There were nearly endless options as far as places to go out and eat went, and trying to narrow it down was getting him nowhere. To that end, he'd texted Ariadne, who was always seeming to hear about new places from other people in her classes, and eventually even Danny, who he thought might have experience with good places for a date, having grown up nearby. Ariadne gave him one quick suggestion and then fell silent, but at least Danny gave him a few ideas for places Arthur had never been, and he figured he could talk to him more in the morning about his ideas for Friday.

_hey, sorry, i was in a movie,_ Ariadne sent just as Arthur was getting ready to climb into bed. _did you still need more places?_

_Maybe, but I've got a few to check out,_ he sent back after brushing his teeth. _Which movie?_

_the hobbit_. Arthur was just about to ask her what she thought of it, or suggest they find time to sit and chat about it between classes tomorrow, now that he knew someone else who had seen it, when she sent another message. _i think i need to hit the library to re-read tolkien, bc i was like 10 the last time and dammit, i'm pretty sure a LOT of that stuff was NOT in the books. and my cousin christy keeps talking about fili and kili as a couple, which is like...it's WRONG. but on the other hand, hot dwarves? help, arthur, i'm conflicted._

Arthur couldn't help but laugh. _Forget the library, you can borrow my copies. I'll bring them to class tomorrow._ He headed to his bookcase, going right for the shelf with all his Tolkien, and pulled out both _The Hobbit_ and _The Fellowship of the Ring_ so he wouldn't forget to bring them with him in the morning. He flipped through _The Hobbit_ —amused as he always was at just how much _singing_ took place within the story, so many italic stanzas scattered throughout the text—making sure he hadn't left any sort of paper or other temporary bookmark within the pages, then gave _Fellowship_ the same treatment.

A small slip of paper, and old, faded receipt from the purchase of a meat and cheese sampler for a charcuterie that had been closed up the last time Arthur had driven by, caught his attention, and he removed it, tossing it into his wastebasket, thinking that he should see if he could find another shop like that somewhere nearby. The receipt had been tucked up against another italicized section, and Arthur gazed at _All That is Gold Does Not Glitter_ , running his thumb over the familiar words once before closing the book back up and setting both volumes on top of his messenger bag and slipping into bed with a yawn, wondering if he stood even the most remote of chances of getting Eames to sit through the whole film trilogy sometime during the summer break. It seemed unlikely. He was more likely to get Ariadne to agree.

Or, failing that, Arthur supposed, he could always call Danny up and see if he'd be down for that sort of thing. There was nothing that said they couldn't hang out once Arthur's internship was over. And it might actually be nice to have friends to hang out with, beyond anyone he went to school with. Especially ones who shared some of the same passions, inside the kitchen and out.


	20. Chapter 20

The Valentine's shift at Exquis had been just as brutal as expected, and Eames woke Friday still feeling the effects. True to his word, Phalen and the front of house manager had indeed made sure everyone had access to their two-drink post-shift allotment, and Eames had stuck around with a few other crew members to chat and vent after everything was done, though he had nursed only one drink for the duration and finished not even half of it, finding himself too exhausted to enjoy it. By the time he'd dragged himself home and fallen into bed, it had been nearly two in the morning.

He didn't even bother getting out of bed until nearly one in the afternoon—completely missing his one class for the morning, which he reasoned was not going to be the end of his academic career—and that was accomplished only by telling himself that he really ought to clean himself up and find something to wear before Arthur arrived in a few hours. It certainly wouldn't do to go out on their date without having showered away the previous evening's sweat and accompanying kitchen grime. 

As they hadn't actually had the foresight to thoroughly plot out their belated celebration, Eames ended up throwing on a soft brown jumper and a pair of jeans, making the assumption that it was an outfit that would work in most places. And if Arthur really wanted to go somewhere fancier, Eames could change. He had just dabbed on a bit of cologne, remembering how much Arthur liked the fragrance, when the doorbell rang. He made his way down the stairs, still feeling a bit of soreness in his limbs from the strain of last night's shift, and opened the front door.

He may not have been dressed in anything particularly formal, but Arthur did look quite good, indeed. He was wearing a pair of black jeans that fit him well, showing off the slimness of his waist and hips while accentuating his arse—which, Eames would readily admit, was quite nice; he'd been a fan long before the evening Arthur had been oblivious to all the flaunting he was doing of said body part as they played pool in that bar downtown—while sporting a blue plaid button-down with the sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. His leather jacket, which Eames had seen more than a handful of times over the winter, was hooked on the tips of his fingers, slung over his left shoulder in a way that looked as if Arthur were ready for a photo shoot.

It was a look Eames appreciated quite a lot, really. And if Arthur looked this good in something as casual as this, Eames had little doubt he would be absolutely _stunning_ if he ever had occasion to wear an actual formal suit. 

He really must find an occasion to see Arthur in such a thing.

"You're looking quite nice this afternoon," Eames said, holding the door open for Arthur to walk through. He snagged the jacket from Arthur's hand as he passed by, hanging it on one of the hooks tucked away behind a small wall specifically for that purpose and catching up to where Arthur stood, already shoeless, poised near the doorway to one of the living rooms. 

"You don't look half-bad yourself," Arthur said with a crooked smile, brushing a light kiss against the corner of Eames's mouth, then pausing. He inhaled audibly, letting the long breath out slowly through his nose, and Eames was glad he'd thought to add the cologne. "And you smell amazing." The look he gave Eames was amused in a sharp, sarcastic sort of way. "You know what that cologne of yours does to me, right?"

"I seem to recall you saying something about liking it," Eames said, smirking just a little. 

"Liking it in a way that makes me think about just skipping going out altogether," Arthur muttered, leaning in again and nipping at Eames's earlobe.

"As intriguing as that idea is—and trust me, the suggestion isn't one I'm dismissing out of hand—shouldn't we at least _attempt_ to figure out plans that resemble an actual date or night out?" He grinned. "That way, even if we do stay in, we could at least say we tried." He absolutely was not against the idea of staying in, in all honesty. He and Arthur had been forcing time into their schedules for each other since the term began, and while Eames considered anything outside of the classroom setting to be quality time, if they were together, there were certain aspects of their relationship that perhaps suffered more than he'd expected. Mostly, he was afraid, in the bedroom department. Rationally, Eames knew that it could be attributed to a general, over-arching sense of exhaustion on both their parts, likely combined with the sort of uptight, conservative streak that ran so solidly through Arthur that it was more a core than a streak. But that didn't mean Eames didn't long to be able to deepen their intimacy in ways that were physical, on top of the intellectual and emotional. 

Arthur snorted softly but stepped back, letting Eames lead him into the living room and onto the sofa. "Yeah, I suppose so." He made himself comfortable, angled towards Eames as they both lounged together. "So. Food. What sort of cuisine were you thinking?"

Eames hesitated. He hadn't really thought about food at all since waking. "I hadn't, actually. Do you have any suggestions?"

Arthur shrugged. "There are about a hundred options. I wasn't sure if you'd want to do something familiar, or try something new tonight. I got a couple of recommendations to places around town, if you want to go exploring a bit. There's Thai, or Ethiopian, or Italian, as far as places that sounded good. Or we could just go something a bit less exotic and do someplace nice that does steak and chicken and fish. I'm actually feeling kind of flexible, tonight. What sounds good?"

In truth, none of those really struck Eames as something he wanted. In fact, the more he thought about food, the less he found he wanted to eat. "I honestly couldn't tell you."

"Well, if you're not hungry yet, we could always just watch some TV or listen to music for a while before we go out," Arthur suggested. "It's still pretty early. And maybe we could do a late film after dinner."

"I have no objections to this plan, if it means I get to lounge here on the sofa with you for a bit." Eames stretched, reaching for the remote, and winced. He was sorer than he'd realized. But going to the cinema seemed like a good plan. There were a lot of DVDs in Niko's collection here at the house, most of them independent, foreign, or some other sort of art film, and he enjoyed not only getting to watch that sort of thing with Arthur, but hearing Arthur talk about things like film theory and assorted other details that enriched Eames's appreciation for the thing, afterwards. But he definitely wouldn't object if Arthur were up for something a bit more...mainstream, either. He just hoped it wouldn't be that Hobbit film. He'd tried to enjoy Tolkien, he really had—once at the urging of a friend back when he was young, and again a few weeks ago, surreptitiously, because he knew Arthur had been a bit obsessed with the man's entire collection of works, back in his high school days. There was just something about the writing style that Eames couldn't get into, that grated just the slightest bit and made it impossible to sink into the stories themselves.

"Get your ass kicked by dinner service last night?" Arthur asked at Eames's wince, sliding closer so that Eames could easily put his arm over the back of the sofa and around Arthur's shoulders.

"Quite handily, really. How'd things go at the bakery?"

"I am officially, one-hundred-percent, over any and all shades of red. I think at one point I actually said something like 'someone deliver me from this pink, heart-shaped, strawberry-flavored, chocolate-covered, sprinkle-coated hell,' because Charlie and Danny and a few of the others sort of lost it for a minute. But it's over, and now I don't have to worry about it for almost another month, when everything's green and mint or Irish cream or chocolate cake made with Guinness." 

The thought of Irish cream and rich chocolate made Eames wrinkle his nose involuntarily. It all sounded too heavy. Perhaps whatever they chose for dinner tonight should be light. "Then it's a good thing I didn't invest the money in a gesture such as covering the bed upstairs in red rose petals." The look Arthur gave him—a combination of horror, guilt, curiosity, and disgust—made Eames chuckle. "I didn't figure you'd be one to really appreciate that sort of thing, anyway, Arthur. While I may have a few romantic tendencies, you don't have to worry about _that_."

Arthur looked relieved, then promptly guilty. "I guess I'm not really the naturally romantic type, sorry. At least, not as far as big, sappy gestures go."

"No, I know that," Eames reassured him. "And I don't need those things." He didn't, really. That wasn't to say a grand gesture now and then would be something he _opposed_ , but it certainly wasn't the sort of thing he would ever _expect_ from Arthur. He really counted himself lucky just to get a quick kiss or a few moments of holding hands out in public. Arthur was more about the practical sort of gesture—bringing Eames lunch when he'd tried a new recipe the night before, making certain he had what he needed for the day before they parted ways in the morning, surprising him with a new kitchen gadget or quietly stocking a new, exotic variety of tea in the pantry when the one he usually drank in the mornings began to run low. He had been learning to appreciate these small things in lieu of anything extravagant or showy. 

"Yeah, well, I could probably be better at that stuff," Arthur muttered. Eames shushed him with a nudge of his knee against his and found something to put on the television that would keep their attention for a bit, until it was something closer to an appropriate mealtime. 

He must have been in need of even more sleep after the events of the previous night, because Eames found himself surfacing from a doze some time later with Arthur beside him, tapping at his phone. When his eyes focused, Eames could see the header of an online menu for an Asian fusion place not terribly far from where he lived, somewhere they'd talked about trying the other week. He gave Arthur a questioning expression when he looked up from his phone, trying to make his brain form all of the words he had into coherent questions.

"I figured it might just be better to order in, tonight," Arthur said with a half-smile. "You look exhausted, and there's no real need to go out, unless there was a movie you really wanted to see, or you wanted to walk along the beach or something, even though it's kind of cold out."

Normally, that would be just the sort of thing Eames enjoyed—especially the beach stroll, which was not only one of his preferred activities in the general area, but would have the added benefit of letting him and Arthur keep close, for warmth. But he couldn't deny that having to get up and walk around and deal with Friday evening crowds seemed like a much more daunting task than usual. Quite often, he fed off the energy of others. Tonight, however, he didn't feel quite the same. Still, he ought to make an effort. They were supposed to be celebrating Valentine's Day, after all. 

"If there's something you'd like to do outside of the house, let's do it," Eames said, trying for a smile. It felt a bit tighter than usual. Most of him did, at the moment. Perhaps all the time pushing himself between his internship and full course load was catching up a bit, especially with the added bit of sacrificed sleep, so that he and Arthur could have at least some semblance of time together in which to develop their relationship.

Arthur just looked at him for a long moment—really looked at him. "Let's just stay in," he said after several seconds, and Eames couldn't quite get a read on his facial expression. "I'll place the order for dinner. What do you want?"

"Just order whatever you think I'd like." The thought of food still wasn't appealing at all, which was not at all like him, and likely meant his body would favor sleep more than anything else. "I trust your judgement." Arthur knew him well enough by this point to know which few foods Eames tended to stay away from, and which sorts of flavors and textures he gravitated towards. "You handle dinner, and I'll find something for us to watch." He gave Arthur's knee a pat and stood, going to give Niko's extensive DVD and Blu-Ray collection a browse before possibly resorting to finding something on the satellite or Eames's Netflix account. Head already bent to better read his phone, Arthur seemed to miss the way Eames wobbled halfway across the room for the briefest of moments.

Perhaps it was best they were staying in, after all. For the first time, Eames let himself entertain the idea that he might be more than just a bit tired from last night's service, then tried to push the thought away again. He had an evening with Arthur all to himself. There were better things to think about.

He came back to the sofa with a random selection of films he had yet to see and set them on the coffee table for Arthur's inspection. Arthur finished placing the online order, set his phone face-down on the corner of the table, and looked over the DVDs in front of him. He glanced at Eames, a wry sort of smile set on his face. "These are your suggestions?"

"Well, I'm not endorsing them, specifically. But they're ones _I_ haven't seen, even if you might have. Why?"

Arthur's expression turned somewhat more amused. "I would have figured you'd go for something...sweeter. Romantic. French New Wave cinema is not exactly the sort of thing most people would watch for Valentine's Day." 

"Perhaps not, but it _is_ the sort of thing _you_ enjoy, isn't it?"

"Okay, I can't fault you on that," Arthur said, with a small laugh. He gestured to the closest DVD. "But _Ma Nuit Chez Maud_ , from what I've heard, is pretty good, but isn't really something you watch to snuggle up with someone and feel uplifted afterwards. The French may be stereotyped as incredibly romantic, but a lot of their filmmakers, New Wave or otherwise, have a pretty fucked up view of love. Which reminds me, I overheard the Cobbs talking last week, and the film center near where I live is playing _Love Me If You Dare_ one afternoon next month. French, with English subtitles. If you'd want to go. It's the first Sunday of spring break."

Eames had never heard of the film, but that really didn't matter much. "It's a date." He liked seeing glimpses of Arthur's passions, whether culinary or otherwise. "But as for tonight, if you don't want to watch one of these, what _do_ you want to watch?"

The look Arthur gave him was sheepish. "I thought maybe we could actually do one of those stereotypical sappy date movies?"

"Who are you and what have you done with the Arthur I know?"

"Funny, Eames. Look, I know. But I've never actually willingly sat through some cheesy romantic movie with someone I've dated, and I've only had one other Valentine's when I've been dating someone, and that didn't exactly go well, and ended right after. I guess what I'm saying is let's give it a shot, even if we're doing it in jest. I'm willing to put up with whatever Netflix can throw at us in the rom-com category, for you."

"Aw, Arthur, I'm touched by your sacrifice," Eames said, placing his hand over his heart. The glare he got back was exactly as sassy as he'd expected.

"Shut up and find something with Hugh Grant already," Arthur muttered, handing over the remote control. "I'm already regretting this." Still, he leaned against Eames's side as they settled together, and Eames gave him a light squeeze as he waited for Netflix to load. 

They ate in front of the television, though Arthur insisted on using actual plates and silverware, and Eames managed to find a set of tapered candles to light and set on the center of the coffee table, for ambiance. It wasn't the same as going somewhere nice for dinner, perhaps, but it would do. Though Arthur ate his meal with relish, Eames found himself picking at his plate. It wasn't that the food was bad; he just couldn't find much of an appetite, and forcing himself to eat was not an option. He put the leftovers away as the movie ended, glad to have them out of his sight and away from his sense of smell—for the first time in his life, he thought the meal might have too much spice and seasoning in it—and settled back onto the sofa as Arthur brought up the next selection, thinking that perhaps he'd do well to shut his eyes for a moment and just listen to the film.

Some time later, Eames opened his eyes and sat up, disoriented. The television was still playing the same film—or, at least a film that also featured Drew Barrymore being quirky—but Arthur was gone. Wondering if it was so late Arthur had simply gone home, Eames reached for his phone to check the time, then promptly regretted the move. He felt dizzy, though he still remained sitting. He took a few moments to let the spell pass, his elbows on his thighs, supporting his head in his hands as he took a few deep breaths with his eyes closed. He heard a noise behind him, but didn't look up right away.

"Hey," Arthur said. His voice sounded odd and muffled for a moment. "Are you okay?" He walked around the sofa and sat back in his previous place, and Eames finally made himself sit all the way up and smile reassuringly. It didn't appear to have worked, given Arthur's next words. "You're really pale." Arthur rested a hand on Eames's thigh. "And you're shaking." 

"I don't think supper sat well with me," Eames allowed. He was starting to feel the faint stirrings of nausea, and realized it had been so long since he'd had that problem outside of being hungover, that he didn't have much in the house to combat it. "I think I might do well to make some peppermint tea."

Arthur's raised eyebrows seemed to be saying a lot of things Arthur wasn't putting into words right away. "I feel okay," he said, slowly, as if running some sort of internal diagnostic exam. "At least, so far." He raised a hand and pressed the back of it to Eames's forehead, then to one cheek. "You're pale, but you _might_ be kind of warm. I can't tell. Why don't you stay here, though, and I'll make the tea. I know where it all is. I'll be back in a few." 

He left before Eames could make even a cursory protest, returning some minutes later with two cups of mint tea. Eames murmured a thank you as he took his and blew lightly on it. The aroma seemed to help settle things a bit, and the first sip a few moments later did so even more. He'd finished it by the time the second film had ended and Arthur had switched over to _The IT Crowd_ , and he let himself curl up a little, Arthur's fingers stroking an absentminded sort of rhythm through the hair at the nape of Eames's neck and over the back of his head in a way that was quite soothing.

An hour later, however, none of that sufficed.

Managing a hasty "excuse me," Eames hurried his way off the sofa and to the nearest toilet, realizing that he was likely going to be in need of such a place. Deep, controlled breaths only delayed the inevitable, and Eames sank to his knees and found himself getting another unfortunate look at the little supper and drink he'd had during the evening.

"Eames?" Arthur called a few moments later from outside the door. "Are you okay?" Eames's attempt to tell him he'd be fine in a moment was cut off with a gag before he was sick again, more violently than before. He was still kneeling on the tile floor several moments later, feeling vaguely grateful the housekeeper Niko kept employed here during his stay in Italy kept the bathrooms as clean and tidy as she did the rest of the place, when Arthur softly knocked before opening the door and stepping cautiously inside. He held out a glass of water. "Here."

Eames took it, rinsing his mouth thoroughly before taking a small, careful sip. "Thank you. And sorry."

"For what?"

"This was not the romantic celebration I had in mind."

Arthur snorted. "Don't apologize for that." He opened the cupboard under the sink, closed it, opened the one behind the door, and closed it back up after removing a folded washcloth. He stuck it under the tap, wrung it out, and handed it to Eames, who ran it over his face and back of his neck gratefully. "Think you can make it upstairs and into bed?"

In all honesty, Eames believed that if Arthur were to walk out this moment and head home, he would just settle in here for the night, propped up against the wall and the cupboard beneath the sink. But with assistance, he might just be able to make it up all of those stairs and down the corridor to his bedroom without falling over. "With your help, yes." He felt vaguely that he should be some measure of embarrassed about the whole ordeal, but he hadn't the energy for that just now. 

Arthur nodded. "Whenever you're ready, then."

They went slowly up the stairs, Arthur at his right and the bannister at Eames's left, and Eames would have declined the level of support, had he not been so bloody dizzy. Arthur said nothing about it, though, looking set and determined, and Eames realized Arthur was in problem-solving mode, decided on a course of action and set on carrying it out. And as Arthur wasn't making a big deal about the night's turn of events, Eames saw no reason to expend that sort of energy worrying about it.

He shooed Arthur's hands away once they were in the guest room Eames used as his own, peeling off his own jeans and jumper and opting for his boxers and a T-shirt pulled from the dresser. He felt awful, yes, but he wasn't completely helpless. And he knew Arthur was the sort to feel a little twitchy about having to take care of someone, always unsure he was performing the task adequately. "You might as well head for home," Eames told him as he lowered himself back onto the bed. "No use in you sticking around when I'm like this."

Arthur visibly hesitated. "At least let me make sure you've got everything you need. Is there anything from the medicine cabinet I can bring you? Or crackers or ginger ale from the kitchen?"

"I'm afraid I don't have any of that on hand, actually," Eames said, sliding himself carefully between the sheets. "I'll be fine. Go on home, Arthur." He didn't feel the immediate urge to be sick again, but he knew it was only a matter of time; that unsettled feeling was creeping over him once more, rising like a slow tide. Best for Arthur to leave before having to be subjected to that again. Eames was perfectly prepared to ride it out alone for a day or two. 

Arthur, however, stood where he was for a long moment, and then he sighed. "Do you have a spare key?"

"Hm?" The pillows were cool against his cheek, and Eames thought for a moment he'd misheard, having his face pressed between two of them.

"I'm going to go hit a drugstore or something. I'd really prefer not to leave your friend's place unlocked while I'm gone, and there's no way you're getting up and all the way downstairs to let me in. Hence wondering if you have a spare key I can use for twenty minutes."

"You really don't have to—" Eames began to protest, turning to look at Arthur, but Arthur cut him off.

"Maybe not, but I'm going to. So make your choice. Place stays unlocked for a little while, or you let me know where there's a spare key. I'm sure you're fine in a neighborhood like this, since it's gated and there's usually a guard at the entrance, but it's your call."

Eames took a look at Arthur's set face and saw that he wasn't going to be easily dissuaded. "No easily accessible spare. Take my set. On top of my wallet on the dresser, there."

Arthur nodded at him, snatching up the keys. "I'll be back soon." And with that he walked briskly out of the bedroom, leaving Eames to sink back into the pillows while trying to keep his body pacified by moving as little as possible. 

It was far longer than twenty minutes before Eames heard Arthur enter the bedroom again from his place sitting on the floor of the en-suite, resting up against the cool porcelain of the bathtub. On his third trip in here, nearly forty minutes prior to Arthur's reappearance, Eames had more or less given up on climbing back into bed for a while and opted for finding a position that let him rest. Every time he thought he couldn't possibly have anything left in him and he might be over the worst of it, his body thought it necessary to prove that it could still make him miserable. He'd gone through just over a half-liter of water out of his Nalgene bottle in the last hour, just to have something to vomit, finding that at least preferable to the unproductive retching that left him with a headache and enough cramping to make sitting all the way upright difficult.

"Are you sure you don't need me to take you to a doctor?" Arthur asked, standing awkwardly in the doorway between the en-suite and the bedroom itself as Eames brought up the last of the water he'd ingested. 

"It'll pass, I think," Eames said weakly, flushing everything away and making an effort to sit upright. Everything hurt, especially the muscles around his middle and back, and his head throbbed with every movement. "If it's still this bad in the morning, I'll reconsider." At the very least, he'd see someone for an anti-emetic if things didn't improve. He wondered if his coworker hadn't perhaps caught some virus and passed it around instead of falling victim to whatever had been on his shoe. He'd blame the night's dinner, only it was too early for food poisoning to have set in, Arthur seemed just fine, and he supposed he hadn't felt all that well even before Arthur's arrival, though he'd attributed that to the strenuous shift the night before. He slowly got to his feet, and Arthur hovered for a moment, looking ready to reach out if Eames should fall in the short trip to the bed. 

"I'm sorry I took so long," Arthur said, pulling back the covers for Eames to slide under. "I had to go further than I thought for a drug store out here, since the one my GPS suggested was closed for renovations. And the one I did finally get to was massive. Took me forever to find anything." He began to pull items out of a white plastic bag, setting a few of them on the nightstand. "Actually, I ran into someone from my internship while I was there, and they helped me find some stuff."

The unpleasant little roll of Eames's stomach at those words had little to do with whatever illness had befallen him. He'd never actually met the bloke, but Eames had a brief vision of Arthur standing in an aisle, chatting leisurely with that coworker of his he always spoke so highly of these days, while Eames was sitting miserably at home, waiting for Arthur's return. "I see." He tried not to let the hurt show on his face, turning away instead to look at the purchases Arthur was going through. There was an individual bottle of ginger ale, two flavors of sports drink, two liter-sized bottles of electrolyte-infused water, a bottle of Pepto-Bismol, a box of plain crackers, and a smaller, white and crimson bottle Eames didn't recognize at all. "What's that?" He could only see the back of the label, and all of the words looked to be in Chinese.

Arthur gave him a small smile. "Curing pills? Some Chinese herb thing that was over in the natural remedies and vitamin section. I've never heard of them, but my coworker said they were really good for all sorts of stomach stuff. You don't have to take them if you don't want to."

Eames raised an eyebrow. He knew Arthur frequented an Asian market or two in the area and had sold Ariadne on one near her place, but he just couldn't picture Arthur turning to Chinese herbs for himself. Perhaps he was wrong on that. 

Maybe he had someone in his life that had opened him to that sort of experience, lately. 

"We'll see," Eames hedged, preferring not to think about it. He was fairly certain that pills of any sort were not something he could manage right this moment, in any case. Even water hadn't stayed down yet. He rolled over, turning his back to Arthur, and burrowed his face into the pillows again, trying to will himself to sleep, even briefly. He heard the brief jangle of keys, and then the clunking of them being laid somewhere on the dresser, followed by Arthur moving towards the bedroom door and the click of it shutting behind him.

Eames waited for the sound of the front door, which was often made possible by the acoustics of the high ceiling in the foyer and the angle of the corridor where his room was, not far from the main staircase. Instead, the other side of the bed dipped, and Arthur's hand met Eames's back, rubbing up and down his spine, the movements slow and careful.

"I thought you were leaving," Eames mumbled, not even certain Arthur could decipher the words through the pillows.

"I already had my bag with my clothes for tomorrow in my car, in case you'd wanted me to stay here after our date." He stroked Eames's back a few seconds more before his hand stilled. "Unless you'd prefer if it I went?"

The thing was, Eames didn't know what he wanted. Normally, he was fairly aware of his desires and motivations, the large ones and the small ones, but he felt so awful it was hard to think. They'd planned a date together for the night, some attempt at romance or the like, and that had been killed not halfway into their time together. He always enjoyed being able to spend time with Arthur, but this wasn't any sort of quality time. It would be one thing if they had been together for a long time, but they were really only two months or so into a new relationship, and this was asking too much from anyone in that position. And he knew Arthur had hang-ups about comforting others. Everything he could reason through said he should just be firm and send Arthur on his way, something with which Arthur should be eager to comply.

And yet he'd offered to stay—had assumed, in fact, that he would be staying, either needed or wanted for whatever reason. It wasn't a behavior Eames thought was typical of him at all, and he really couldn't fathom exactly what Arthur's motivations might be for something out of his usual range of action. 

"No," Eames said after a long moment, tired of trying to make sense of it all—what he wanted, what Arthur wanted, what was best for either or both of them. "Stay. If you want to."

There was no verbal answer. Instead, the bed dipped further, and Eames felt the warmth and weight of Arthur's body shift closer as he found a position in which to settle, the heel of his hand slowly resuming its slow pattern of rubbing along the length of Eames's spine, up from the small of his back to the spot between his shoulder blades a few inches below his heck, and back down again. At some point, Eames finally managed to drift off to sleep, escaping the reach of nausea and ache, Arthur's touch warm and solid on his skin.


	21. Chapter 21

As comfortable as Eames's bed was, Arthur was definitely going to give himself a crick in his neck if he didn't find a better position in which to read. 

He was, for once, glad he'd not had time to thoroughly unpack everything from his bag and start with an empty one while loading it up with the things he thought he'd need for the day. After yesterday's mind-numbing shift, cranking out what had to be hundreds of pink-colored white-chocolate-coated cookie sandwiches on lollipop sticks and easily twice as many chocolate-dipped strawberries, he'd been lucky to be functional enough to even remember to bring the damned thing up to his apartment from the trunk of his car. He hadn't even taken out the clothes to be washed until early this afternoon, something that normally would have horrified him. The lack of thoroughness meant his bag still smelled a little like chocolate and frosting on the inside, but it also meant he at least had a book with him, since Ariadne had returned his copy of _Fellowship_ in class Thursday afternoon, switching it out for his copy of _Two Towers_. 

Arthur hadn't exactly expected to be spending the last few hours of his date night with Eames sitting up alone and reading, but sometimes plans went to hell, and you just had to roll with it. There were worse things. He could be just as sick as Eames, for one. 

It was later than Arthur should be up, given his early shift, but he reasoned he could finish one more chapter of his book before giving up for the night, or two if he really still felt awake. He was tired, yes, but not in a way that urged him to sleep just yet. Every time Eames moved or made a noise, Arthur's brain sort of clicked into a low level of alert mode, just in case he needed to do something, get up and make a trip to the emergency room, maybe, or head out for some item he hadn't thought to grab at the drug store. He'd really been lucky to run into Maureen while wandering lost through the aisles. She'd called his name and then approached to say hello, and a glance at the few items in his basket—namely, ginger ale and Saltines—had prompted her to ask if he was feeling all right, and if he might need to call out for his shift the next morning. When he'd explained the reason he was _actually_ wandering around the massive drug store, which wasn't at all his usual neighborhood Walgreens, she'd taken pity on him and helped him out, locating the Pepto-Bismol and then leading him over to the natural remedies section for something she'd said had done wonders for her motion sickness and her sister's morning sickness. Given how miserable Eames had looked when Arthur left, he figured it couldn't hurt much to have another option. Eames hadn't ended up taking them before finally falling into actual sleep an hour or so ago—only taking a dose of Pepto and muttering something about how at least now when he was sick, he'd get to see a cheerful pink color—but Arthur reasoned if Eames didn't want them, he could always take them back to his apartment and try them if the need ever arose.

Arthur found himself finally yawning partway through chapter ten and decided it might be time to finally attempt sleep. His eyes felt heavy as he read through Gandalf's letter to Frodo, the rhyming lines of _All That is Gold Does Not Glitter_ creating a sort of lilting verse in his head. He loved Tolkien's syntax, and was honestly still a bit incredulous at how Eames could find it so tedious. How could he not enjoy a poem like this, at the very least? Even people who _weren't_ into _The Lord of the Rings_ knew at least part of it.

Arthur paused. He'd read the book at least half a dozen times, and it was funny how the line that was just about everywhere in pop culture, quoted so often and so widely that a large number of people didn't even realize the source, plastering bumper stickers with the words across their cars out of some bohemian ideal or desired identity suddenly stuck out at him. _Not all who wander are lost_. 

The hell with Aragorn (no, okay, not really, Arthur apologized mentally to the Ranger, he didn't mean that), that line right there might be the underlying thing Eames was getting at that night they'd run into each other in Santa Monica, when they'd been chatting in that pizza place before taking a walk along the pier. 

He remembered a lot about that night—how he'd been reluctant to accept the offer of a meal with someone that annoyed him with his cheerfulness and easily friendly way that had been turning out to be somewhat less fake than Arthur had initially expected; how he'd been so surprised when Eames had ordered the same uncommon pizza toppings Arthur'd been craving not long before that night; how he'd offered up the kitchen here in the house where his friend was letting him live, when Arthur'd mentioned not having the necessary accommodations to do the project he'd really wanted for one of his classes; how he'd felt, taking the plunge and telling someone for the first time why he had really quit his dependable, well-paying job and decided to follow his heart and attend culinary school; how there had been that moment, just before his parking meter was set to expire, where there had been the chance to throw his usual caution to the wind and let himself kiss Eames, because it had suddenly seemed like something he might want; how he'd actually been disappointed when Eames had declined an offer of a ride to his own car when it turned out they were parked in places that meant they wouldn't be walking together any more that night. 

But what stuck out of those memories right now was the way Eames had answered Arthur's question about his decision to attend Pacifica. He'd told Arthur about how Chef Yusuf—to Eames just a friend and regular customer, which felt weird to Arthur, who only knew him in the context of his own student/instructor dynamic—had sort of nudged him along that path, thinking that it might be something to keep him from moving around so much, or would at least give him an advantage for the next time he did move. Arthur had already gathered that Eames did a lot of moving, given his offhanded mentions of different types of restaurants and different cities and even countries, and had originally assumed it was due to a lack of focus or greater life motivation, or even as a direct result from simply running away from whatever problems he might have. But Eames had seemed so casual about it all at first, only hinting at a deeper meaning underneath it all that had piqued Arthur's curiosity and nestled itself in the back of his mind. 

_Not all who wander are lost_ , Arthur thought again, looking over at where Eames lay beside him, curled up in a ball underneath all the blankets. Maybe that was exactly the idea that summed up Eames's nomadic tendency. It wasn't moving in a desperate attempt to get back along the track that had him going where he'd originally meant to be, so much as it was travelling through life, gathering experiences and letting the universe or whatever guide him to wherever—or whomever—he was ultimately meant to be. Something that might look aimless to others, but wasn't without purpose. 

Finally realizing that, being able to come up with a quick, graspable summary of something that was at the heart of Eames's actual essence, gave Arthur a little burst of something warm and soft, an unexpected and rare bloom of tenderness in both mind and heart. He labeled people and their apparent motivations almost immediately upon interacting with them, something that had rarely served him poorly in the past. It was just the way he ordered and compartmentalized everything and everyone in the universe, occasionally amending the labels as he found necessary or helpful, given new information or other insight. Ariadne had really been the first person in a long while to make him steadily revise his initial descriptive shortcut, allowing a deeper affection and connection grow with each adjustment and alteration. Even Danny, whom Arthur had so disliked upon their initial meeting, was getting a little of that treatment. But it was Eames who was pushing it to new levels, rewriting the label so many times that it was almost necessary to cross half of it out and start over with a new one, right on top. He was a category unto himself, slowly filling with new information the more Arthur got to know him.

It had seemed so very implausible (not to mention something he wouldn't care about in the slightest) when they first met, for Arthur to _want_ to grow closer to Eames, to understand him on any level but the most superficial. Yet here they were. Arthur knew he didn't have it totally down, but he felt like he was definitely getting there, little tiny steps at a time. It was surprising, but it also pleased him. And there were moments where it felt like Eames might actually get him, too—might accept him for the anal-retentive, perfectionist, emotionally distant (...and, honestly, possibly more than slightly arrogant) asshole he was and would most likely always be. 

Arthur closed the book on his lap, leaning over to toss it gently onto the carpet before turning off the bedside lamp and sliding the rest of the way down into the bed. Though he tried to be careful, he managed to jostle Eames, who let out a pathetic moan and curled up tighter into himself. 

"Sorry," Arthur murmured, taking greater care as he scooted himself up behind Eames's back. He ran his fingers through Eames's hair, hoping it was soothing instead of annoying. He'd always seemed to enjoy it before, and he'd taken Arthur's earlier hesitant, awkward attempts at comforting gestures without complaint. This was far from the sort of thing that came naturally to him, but Arthur was trying to get better at it all, because Eames seemed like the kind of person who liked all the small aspects of intimacy which usually made Arthur uncomfortable and tense. He didn't feel the same level of discomfort when sharing them with Eames—who seemed to do all those behaviors and more on instinct—or even Ariadne, on occasion, but it was still work most times, an extra thought necessary that others probably didn't need. It was slowly coming more easily, but Arthur wasn't sure it would ever be second nature for him. He'd never really cared about it before, that was for sure.

Eames took Arthur's hand in his once he'd slid his arm back under the comforter, tugging it into place around him so that Arthur's palm was flat against Eames's chest, keeping his arm there with his own hand wrapped around Arthur's wrist as he settled himself up against Arthur's body, and muttered something Arthur couldn't make out at all. Arthur shushed him softly and told him to go back to sleep. Eames didn't say anything else, instead just weakly squeezing his own arm against Arthur's in something like an embrace—the sort of slight hug he often gave before sleep when he was the one behind Arthur, his bulk a welcome solidity that Arthur found more surprisingly more grounding than oppressive. It was comfortable and familiar, and Arthur pressed a light kiss against the back of Eames's neck, just as Eames tended to do to him, and felt Eames sigh deeply before his body went totally lax in Arthur's arms.

The last few days—and especially their date night this evening—had been far from romantic, but Arthur still thought this was still okay, Eames's illness aside. This wasn't the sort of thing he'd ever really had before, a relationship that pushed him so far outside of his usual comfort zone without making him want to dig his feet in or simply escape, but it was good, a new challenge and opportunity to grow. He was probably still fucking up in ways he didn't realize, but Eames seemed happy enough to put up with him despite that—and despite Arthur having nearly fucked the whole thing up before it really even began, back at the end of last semester, when he'd more or less panicked, snapped, and fled instead of taking time to pause and reevaluate the situation for what it really was and what it had the potential to be. 

He really was grateful for the second chance Eames had allowed him for whatever reason, knowing he hadn't done anything to really deserve it. He wished he showed it more, similar to the way he'd been sure he ought to show Ariadne that he valued her friendship the other night when he'd made the decision to head to her place in case she needed someone to listen or just be there when that asshole had dumped her. There had to be a way to show Eames how much he appreciated having him here, willing to be a part of Arthur's life in a measure no one else had ever really wanted before. 

He fell asleep with the beginnings of an idea to do just that rolling around in his mind and gathering some sort of shape, his arm still around Eames's chest and his cheek pressed against Eames's shoulder, the rhythm of their breathing synced.


	22. Chapter 22

Eames's schedule really didn't allow him much in the way of free time these days—he was certainly not counting his four days of stomach virus the other week as 'free time,' even if he _had_ spent most of it in bed or otherwise resting—so, when the chance presented itself for some sort of leisurely pursuit, he took it. This morning was one such rare occasion, made rarer by the fact that he had someone to spend the time with.

"What do you think of this one?" Ariadne called from behind a display that obscured her entirely from Eames's view. He came around to where she stood, her hand on the corner of a large, plastic-framed poster midway through a stack of them, holding it in place so he could take a look. "Just for my bedroom or something. Give it some color."

Eames tilted his head to the side to see the image more accurately. It looked to be a photograph, or at least a realistic-looking painting, of a hedge maze at sunset. The greens of the shrubbery were offset by the purples and pinks in the strip of sky visible at the top and accented by the indigo water of the fountain or pond that lay in what he took to be the middle of the maze's design. "It would certainly brighten the place up." He'd been to Ariadne's flat a handful of times since the school year began, if only for brief visits or to meet up in order to carpool somewhere. It was decorated with the typical, slightly-mismatched assortment of furniture and other belongings typical of college students. A splash of color wouldn't be amiss in the place as a whole, but Eames could certainly see wanting something brighter in her bedroom. "On the wall that runs the length of your bed, perhaps?"

"That or over my desk. What do you think?"

"I could see that working."

"You're not going to give me shit about it being a maze?" she asked, eyebrows raised.

Eames grinned. "Well, the thought _had_ crossed my mind, love." Working in a Greek café hadn't made him an expert in Greek mythology or anything along those lines, but she'd mentioned something about her name and a minotaur and ball of thread shortly after he'd met her, and that _had_ rung the smallest of bells, so he'd looked it up after class that day. It was part of what amused him so, when he'd caught her, a few weeks later, doodling maze-like images in the margins of one of her notebooks. She'd told him to shut up and muttered something about having always been good at mazes when he'd made casual mention of it. Whether her parents had simply fortuitously named their daughter or she'd taken up the hobby, being aware of her namesake, Eames didn't know. He found it delightful, in either case. "But you like what you like, and it is a rather pretty image. I particularly like the fountain, there," he said, pointing. 

Ariadne nodded. "Me too. I'm not huge on the orange bit of the sky kind of in the corner, but the colors in the rest are nice. Maybe I'll keep looking. It's not like we're here specifically to find things to decorate my room. It's just nice to have a day off and have some company for it." She nudged his arm with hers companionably.

"It is rather nice to see you on a Sunday, I'll admit," Eames said, thumbing through the rest of the framed posters in the bin, pausing briefly on a replica of an old concert poster he thought Arthur might like before dismissing it as the sort of thing that would likely never find its way onto Arthur's walls. Eames wondered if he'd had that sort of thing as decoration in his high school or college days and found he had a very difficult time imagining what a teenaged Arthur's bedroom would have looked like. He was fairly certain it would have been tidy, no matter the décor. "Aren't you usually at the bakery at some ungodly hour?"

Ariadne made a face. "Yeah. There are a lot of weddings in the early afternoon, so there's usually a bunch of employees doing finishing touches. But I've been getting stuck mostly taking orders from people who are strolling around after church or setting up plans for upcoming birthdays because it's a big day for people to do errands. Or setting up for wedding cake tastings. But they didn't need me today, so I got a day to sleep in past sunrise. What about Arthur? Is he at his internship?"

"Not today." Eames let his gaze rest on the shelf of porcelain and resin figures at his right—mostly dragons and wizards and elves—rather than meet her eyes. "He's busy with something else." Not that Eames knew what that actually _was_. He'd asked Arthur what he was up to for the day, merely curious if they might not be able to meet up for lunch or a stroll near the beach, or even a drive through some place like Palos Verdes down to the south, or some of the nicer parts of the Hollywood Hills, if they didn't want to travel that far away just for some scenery. Arthur had been incredibly vague about his plans and, when Eames had pushed for just a little more detail, finding the way Arthur seemed to hedge his answer odd, Arthur had shut down that line of questioning a bit testily, reminding Eames of the way Arthur had been when they'd first met. 

"Ugh," Ariadne muttered, annoyance in her voice, which mirrored the way Eames felt about the morning's brief phone conversation with Arthur. "Let's get out of here."

Eames looked back up, following her line of sight. There was a young couple, Ariadne's age or perhaps a few years younger, standing in front of a nearby display, completely oblivious to the outside world. The girl had her hands in the boy's back pockets and was smiling up at him like no one else in the world even existed. The boy had one of his own hands in her back pocket, the other one raised to play with the girl's hair. The boy dipped his head to kiss the girl on the nose, then on each cheek, and then continued to drop small, short kisses on her mouth—one after another, at least six of them with no sign of them stopping—before Ariadne grabbed Eames by the arm and dragged him with her, towards the front of the shop and out the door. 

"I can't watch that sort of thing," Ariadne muttered, her hand still around Eames's elbow as they walked past window displays and shop entrances. "Come on, let's get coffee. I'd say something to eat, but I think that kind of killed my appetite."

They made their way through the mall to the first coffee shop they came across, and Ariadne secured them a small table while Eames went to order for them both. He returned with two blended iced coffee drinks that were, he suspected, ice, flavored syrup, whipped cream, and milk, rather than anything containing actual coffee, and waved Ariadne's proffered ten dollar bill away. "My treat, this time."

"Thanks." They sat in silence for a few moments with their drinks, and Eames used the time without conversation to observe the people around them and those that walked by. After a while, Ariadne sighed in a way that portended a significant conversation, and he turned away from the window to give her his attention. "Do you like your internship?"

"It's not bad," he said, toying with his straw. "It's really not unlike most of the jobs I've had. Which is, I suppose, the point."

"What's it like? I mean, like, an average shift? What sort of stuff do you do, how do you spend your time, that sort of thing? I figure it's gotta be different than working in a bakery. Tell me about it."

"It depends on the shift, really. If it's one of the earlier ones, I'm usually just prep—par-cooking certain items, especially the side dishes, peeling and slicing some of the produce or washing and trimming greens for the salad, maybe making a dressing or sauce, sometimes breaking down chickens or roasting bones or making a stock, About the only thing I've been completely hands-off on is anything on the dessert menu. No one but the two pastry chefs they've hired touches those. Even the kitchen manager stays away from those. I think the head chef has only done the smallest of things with them, and that was only in a pinch. Other nights, it's working a station, though I don't know if that's something they've let interns do before I started. Sometimes it's appetizers, sometimes the grill, sometimes fish and seafood. It's a little like a combination of that night we worked the fundraising dinner, and some of the hands-on lessons in Chef Cobb's or Chef Fischer's classes, I suppose. Faster-paced, certainly." He took a sip of his drink. "Has your internship improved at all?"

She shook her head. "No. I actually hate it even more. At first, I thought that was sort of the way bakeries just were, especially because Arthur said something really early on about hating his. But mine just keeps getting worse." She sighed. "What about Arthur's? How's he handling the hours and the people or whatever?"

"He seems fond of it, now, actually," Eames said, taking care not to let some measure of bitterness enter his voice. He was glad Arthur enjoyed what he was doing, he truly was. It made him more pleasant to be around than he had been at the beginning of the term, that was for certain, and everyone should be lucky enough to have a job they enjoyed. Eames had no reason to really bristle so much when Arthur spoke of it, relayed some happening he felt was amusing or interesting, but that didn't mean he could necessarily stop having the reaction. "He's getting to do a bit of everything, from what I've gathered."

"And he likes the people he works with?"

"Seems to." He cleared his throat. Some of them, he seemed to like an awful lot, even having gone so far as to have spent time with at least one of them—that Danny bloke—outside of the bakery, which was not something he seemed to do very often at all. "Arthur would be the one to answer your questions better, though, you know."

Ariadne shrugged. "Yeah, I guess. But he's been kind of hard to get a hold of lately, outside of time in class or on campus. I mean, we text here and there, and he _did_ come over to hang out a few weeks ago, but other than that, I haven't caught him much." She laughed just a little. "I figure I just have really bad timing and keep interrupting in the middle of you two having sex or whatever." 

Eames chuckled with her. "Perhaps." He didn't think that was likely the case, but he wasn't going to tell her that. There had been unfortunately few of those moments for her to interrupt since the term had begun in January. They'd had a bit of time to mess around here and there, a number of snogging sessions, a couple of mutual handjobs (including one very nice one in the shower that Eames would like to repeat, should the opportunity arise), and another of Arthur's blowjobs—but many of their attempts had been thwarted by incompatible schedules, exhaustion, or the unfortunate timing of illnesses. 

Ariadne hesitated. "Actually, I mean, don't get me wrong, he's great, but...has he seemed a little weird lately?"

"What do you mean by weird?"

"I don't know. It's probably just me. Sometimes I feel like he's kind of uptight around me—and not just how he _used_ to be uptight, you know, about everything. I dunno. I can't quite put my finger on it."

Eames nodded. "He's been quite busy lately," he said lightly. He'd noticed a bit of the same, though only in the last week or two. Arthur had been a bit more distant. Well, no, that wasn't _precisely_ it. Cagier, perhaps. 

"Yeah, I guess that's probably it. I don't know why I felt like he's been avoiding me. Hell, he dropped everything and came over just to hang out on my couch the night Jim dumped me. And we had a ten-minute chat about the books I've been borrowing from him when I returned the last one a few days ago." She shook her head. "You're probably right, and it's just me being stressed out and irritable."

She opened her mouth to say something else, but stopped when shouted words made their way across all of the other background noise of the coffee shop. Eames sometimes had a habit of catching snatches of personal conversations while out in public, the same sort of way he just happened to notice physical attributes and little quirks and mannerisms, but it was especially hard to avoid doing just now, with voices so raised, and it was definitely more difficult when the person doing the shouting stood up from their table, shoving their chair back with a screech of wood against linoleum. Eames caught the phrase "cheating bitch," spat in anger, and tried not to look too obviously at the couple across the shop. He was just about to suggest to Ariadne that they find somewhere quieter to finish their conversation when the girl at the table laughed, picked up her purse, and walked out the door, saying something about how at least the other men she'd been with hadn't required her to fake it. The original shouter stood there in silence for a moment before storming out, thankfully heading in the direction opposite from the girl's path.

"Well, at least my breakup wasn't _that_ dramatic," Ariadne said, turning back to Eames. Most of the other patrons were also resuming their previous conversations, the usual background noise resuming after a few moments of shocked silence in the wake of what had transpired. "He basically just said I sucked for a whole lot of reasons and left. Hell, I didn't even find out he'd been cheating on me the entire time—or that, I guess technically, I was the 'other woman', or one of three of them—until I ran into someone we both happened to know at the grocery store last week."

She said it so flippantly it took an extra second or two for Eames to process exactly what the situation had been. But once it did, he looked directly at Ariadne. "And where exactly is he now? Because I do believe he needs a good beating, and I'd like to volunteer to administer it."

Ariadne laughed a little and waved him off. "He's not worth it, though I do appreciate the offer. I mean, yeah, it sucked to be dumped, and it's not like we were together for a long time or anything—it was seriously just like four or five weeks—but I think I'm definitely better off now. It wasn't like we were ever really _serious_ or anything, unlike some people I know. Maybe if it had been that sort of relationship, I'd have seen the signs on my own and cut it off. All the weird secrecy about what he was doing and his lack of spare time and not introducing me to any of his friends and all that stupid shit. But hey, live and learn, I guess." Her phone chimed and she pulled it out of her purse and made a face. "Ugh, email about next week's schedule at the bakery. But holy shit, I didn't realize the time. I'm going to hit the ladies' room, and then we should head over to the theater if we're going to catch that movie after all. Be right back." She stepped past him, tossing her empty plastic cup into the bin as she went, leaving Eames to his own thoughts as he waited for her.

Vague excuses about where someone was and what they were doing. Secrecy. Not being introduced to friends. Ariadne had mentioned all of those things as signs she should have seen, giant arrows pointing to the truth of what had been doing on in her relationship. And maybe she _should_ have noticed them, if she'd stepped back and taken a look, so as not to be blindsided with the later revelation. She saw them, but only in hindsight.

The trouble was, Eames could see them, too. Right in front of him. 

He pushed the thought away along with the remainder of his drink, which was no longer appetizing. Surely that couldn't be it. He knew Arthur better than that. 

Didn't he?


	23. Chapter 23

This was the first time in too long that Arthur didn't have something for school hanging over his head, the first chance in several weeks where he might be able to forget about classes and homework and have some time to get other things done, now that midterms—a little less stressful than the ones first semester, simply because he'd better known what to expect—were done with. He might still end up cracking a text book to get a head start on the second half of the term, or spend some time in the kitchen, baking and perfecting a technique or two, but the point was, he didn't _have_ to think about Pacifica or anything associated with it if he didn't want to, for a full week.

Of course, it was less than a minute after expressing that thought aloud that he heard Eames say, "Good afternoon, Chef," speaking to some point just behind Arthur's left shoulder.

Seriously?

Arthur turned around at the replied "Good afternoon, gentlemen," finding Chef Mal standing behind him, smiling at him and Eames both, as her husband approached their spot in the lobby of the film center, a drink held in each hand. Arthur stood a little straighter and greeted both of his instructors, hoping Chef Mal hadn't heard his exclamation just a few moments ago and taken it personally. 

"Are you both fans of Yann Samuell's work?" she asked instead, taking a dainty sip of the wine Chef Cobb handed her.

"I've never seen any of his films," Eames said, looking apologetic. "Actually, it's Arthur here who's the fan of cinema."

She raised an eyebrow at Arthur. "All cinema, or French, specifically?"

Arthur cleared his throat. "All, really, but especially foreign and independent. And I do have a soft spot for French cinema, especially the New Wave directors."

"Then you really should become a member of this film center, if you aren't already. They dedicate one evening a month to French cinema, and tonight is their March offering. Next month is _Les Quatre Cents Coups_ , I believe. Were you able to catch last month's _La Vie en rose_?"

" _La Môme_? No, unfortunately not." Had he known about it, he might have dragged Eames along with him. He'd already seen _The 400 Blows_ a half-dozen times—and had even gotten Eames to watch it with him one night over the break between semesters—but Arthur hadn't yet actually seen the other film, though he'd heard good things. Thankfully, Eames was at least tolerant of Arthur's insistence that any foreign film they watched be subtitled instead of dubbed if there was a choice between the two options. Other friends and partners had not been so indulgent of that particular quirk.

Chef Mal nearly beamed at him. "You know the French title and everything! It's a pity you missed it. They did a lovely talk afterwards, and had local artists do some of her music."

"My wife is a big fan of Edith Piaf," Chef Cobb said affectionately, looking way more relaxed than he ever did on campus. It was a little odd, really, to see him out of chef's whites, just another fellow movie-goer. "She's always playing her."

Arthur smiled. "I can't tell you how often I've heard _Non, je ne regrette rien_." His mother used to play that record when he was little, and he'd often heard it floating up the stairs on warm summer nights, lifting him out of his dreams and letting him know that both parents were home and unwinding from their days, before lulling him back to sleep. 

The four of them made small talk—something Arthur generally hated—for a few short moments more before Arthur excused himself and Eames in order to head to the bar and place an order while they waited for the theater to open for their showing, mostly as a way to extract himself from a situation which might become awkward once they ran out of things to say that weren't related to school. He felt eyes on him as they stood in line at the bar, and he looked over at Eames to find him staring. "What?"

"You speak French?"

Arthur shrugged. It was something Chef Mal had asked about not long before they'd parted ways, commenting on his accent when he'd mentioned another movie title. "Yeah. Why?" He'd taken it starting in fourth grade, all the way through college, helped along by a tutor his parents had hired to keep him busy over the course of three summers. It had certainly been a skill he'd appreciated when his father had taken them all to France the summer Arthur graduated high school. And it sure as hell didn't hurt to have the language background in the culinary field, with so many French terms in use. 

Eames shook his head. "Never mind." The man in front of them in line walked away with his drink, and Eames stepped forward, placing his own order, tacking Arthur's onto it before he reached for his wallet to pay.

Arthur frowned. Eames had been acting really weird lately. He was giving a lot of "never mind"s as answers these days, which was _especially_ weird, given he'd never been all that shy about sharing his thoughts before. He'd always been chatty, full of a nearly never-ending stream of conversation—it had been one of the first things Arthur had noticed about him, and it had honestly been annoying as hell, at first—but that trait had dimmed significantly over the last week or two. 

And, truth be told, Arthur actually _missed_ it.

The behavior held after the movie, as they ate in a newly-opened restaurant off the Promenade, and Arthur gave up trying to get Eames to say much about what he'd thought of the movie, or how his internship was going, or really much of anything else, halfway through the meal. It didn't seem to help matters that Arthur's phone—tucked safely in his pocket—vibrated noticeably a number of times in the quiet of the mostly-empty café. When Arthur finally took a hasty look at his notifications, he felt the weight of Eames's gaze on him. He shoved the phone back in his pocket and muttered a sorry.

"Someone really seems to want to talk to you," Eames said, in a way that sounded forcedly casual. 

"It's no one," Arthur said, holding down the power button without removing the phone from his pocket a second time. 

"You're certain it's not important?"

It was, actually, but it wasn't anything that Arthur needed to attend to just this second. The voicemails and texts could wait until he and Eames parted ways, or Arthur found himself with a free moment to step away somewhere private. And he sure as hell couldn't fill Eames in on the details. He was still in the early stages of trying to get a plan together, the idea he'd had the night Eames had gotten sick finally taking shape. Arthur wanted the whole thing to go perfectly—and that included keeping the secret of what he was trying to do from Eames.

"It's nothing." Eames gave him a look that was tinged with suspicion, and Arthur tried to ignore it. "How's your meal?" Eames had gone for some sort of steak sandwich with onions and peppers and a variety of cheeses, thick, hand-cut fried purple potato slices on the side, and he'd started eating with gusto, though he'd only been picking at the last third of it for a while now.

"It's good. Steak's not over-cooked, potatoes are nice. Could maybe use a bit more of the blue cheese on the sandwich."

"You always think things could use more blue cheese," Arthur said with a grin.

Eames smiled back, but it wasn't as vibrant as usual. "True enough. How's yours?"

Arthur gestured down at his plate, which was mostly just crumbs and salad dressing at this point. "Definitely worth twelve dollars for a grilled cheese and salad." He'd read the words "mild, melted buffalo mozzarella", "buttered and grilled crusty jalapeno cheddar bread", and "pomegranate vinaigrette with feta and candied walnuts" a quarter of the way through the menu and not bothered to go any further. "Did you want to split something for dessert?" He paused. "Or we could walk down to that ice cream and gelato place on the pier we went to a few months ago?" It had been before he and Eames had gotten together, but that was the night Arthur had started to entertain the thought that he might actually _want_ to get together with Eames, in some way. The gelato Arthur had had that night had been amazing, and he'd meant to go again, but hadn't found the time or opportunity. 

"I don't think I'm much in the mood for sweets right now," Eames said after a moment, and Arthur nodded. The meal Eames had ordered _had_ looked pretty filling. "Perhaps we can just head back to your flat and relax there?"

"No!" It spilled out suddenly, and Arthur tried to backtrack, covering the forcefulness of his answer. It didn't help that Eames looked so shocked. "I mean, yes, I'd like to keep spending time together, but just not at my place. They're doing work on the building. It's loud, and the water might not be back on until tonight." That was a damned lie, but he hoped a believable one. The plumbing in his building was kind of shitty, and they'd had to fix the hot water heater for it once already last semester, and they definitely needed to fix some things in the laundry rooms, but that wasn't why Arthur had reacted so strongly. He'd just seen a flash of the stuff on his coffee table, the brochures from a couple of bakeries, the menu from a Greek café and bakery, and the notepad with two pages of notes on venues for a small private party, all sitting out in the open, exactly where Eames would spot it all the second he got three steps past the front door. "Maybe your place? If you don't mind?"

Eames nodded, but his jaw looked tight. "My place it is, then. Let's go." He pulled a few bills out of his wallet and placed them inside the leather book where their waitress had placed their bill a few minutes ago and stood, leaving Arthur to quickly do the same. 

Arthur had been about to suggest they take an actual walk along the pier, even without the goal of acquiring ice cream, but the brisk pace Eames kept up indicated that he wouldn't be in the mood. Arthur sighed. Eames was acting as uptight as...well, about as uptight as Arthur usually was. 

"Hey," Arthur murmured as they came to a pause outside the parking garage's elevator, waiting for it to reach ground level. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," Eames said. But his face said differently, and his tone was that of someone who was trying to convince everyone—including themselves—that things were fine. 

"Yeah, okay," Arthur said, figuring he'd allow Eames to pretend things were fine. He was pretty sure Eames would simply open up and talk to him about whatever was bothering him in his own time. He just seemed that sort of person. Perhaps it was just stress, after all. While Arthur had at least four days this coming week without anywhere he had to be, having taken Maureen's suggestion to just work a few full days during the break instead of doing a bunch of his usual short shifts so as to keep his internship hours on track but not completely waste his vacation, Eames still had his usual short evening and weekend shifts at the restaurant to deal with, with a few longer days built in to make up for the couple of shifts he'd had to miss last month. They were halfway through the semester now, anyway. If they were lucky, maybe next semester, they'd have internships that coincided better with each other's schedules and didn't seem to be _trying_ to keep them apart. 

Arthur had been trying to find the balance of spending the necessary time on school work, fulfilling his hour requirements for his internship, and getting to spend some time with his friends outside of their shared classes, while still giving Eames some time without him, to decompress, allowing him to not always be stuck with Arthur underfoot. He knew some people found him a little too intense, or driven, or whatever other things he'd been called in the past when someone he'd been seeing had asked for more time apart. Arthur didn't feel nearly as irritated by all of Eames's quirks as he had with those of other people he'd dated over the years, but that didn't mean he didn't like a bit of time to himself, either. Maybe Eames was having a similar sort of problem, and just needed some more time alone to recharge.

At least Arthur's current project could give him that. He'd thought about it for a long time the weekend Eames had been sick, trying to find some way he could show Eames that Arthur really did appreciate him and was glad to be a part of his life. It wasn't until he'd remembered a conversation from back at Christmas that he'd started playing around with potential logistics. He'd taken the first step the following Monday while Eames was still stuck at home in bed, sleeping off residual weakness and body aches, and headed to see Chef Yusuf during his office hours. It was still really fucking weird to think of the pastry arts instructor as simply being one of Eames's good friends, but Arthur got over the awkwardness by telling himself there was no one better to consult. And when he'd mentioned wanting to throw a little surprise party in honor of Eames's five-year anniversary of being in the US, Chef Yusuf had been very supportive, readily offering to help Arthur contact some of Eames's other friends that he knew. Arthur still had a lot of shit to figure out, as far as details went, but he was getting there. By the time the date rolled around in May, things should be perfect.

The drive to Eames's friend's place was quiet, and Arthur didn't feel up to repeating the same attempt at forcing conversation as he had over their meal. So he made sure to keep the radio on and let Eames be as quiet as he wanted. He didn't push while they watched TV in the living room, no matter how much his instinct wanted him to, and he made sure to be the one to bring up the hour and suggest he head home for the evening, instead of bothering Eames by inviting himself over for another night. 

"I suppose I'll see you at some point during the week," Eames mumbled as he walked Arthur to the front door, and for the first time in a few hours, Arthur wondered if he might be wrong in thinking Eames wanted more time alone, even though he hadn't seemed all that interested in Arthur's company or conversation for the vast majority of the day and evening. Hell, Arthur had kept his phone off, just in case, but Eames had remained distant the entire night, not even settling up against Arthur and removing the bubble of personal space Arthur now found himself expecting Eames to breach—welcomed, even, most times.

"Of course you will," Arthur said, genuinely surprised at the melancholy in Eames's tone, like he'd actually resigned himself to not seeing Arthur until the break ended and classes started back up. "I've got some errands tomorrow, but give me a call tomorrow night, and we'll figure something out." 

Eames nodded and held open the front door. Arthur turned to bid him farewell in the usual way, with a quick kiss and a simple good night, but something in Eames's posture and blank expression made him pause. He stepped closer, wrapping his arms around Eames and holding on instead of letting go after a half-second, as he often did. He felt Eames move to pull away, obviously expecting nothing longer than the parting hug which Eames was usually the one to initiate in any case, but Arthur didn't release right away. He kept his arms loose, in case Eames really didn't feel up for the bit of comfort Arthur had intended to give, but the slight bit of Arthur's resistance kept him in place. After a moment, he wrapped his own arms back around Arthur and Arthur tightened his hold. He felt he should say something, but had absolutely no idea which words might be the right ones. He didn't even know what was actually bothering Eames and causing him to act so differently.

In lieu of saying the wrong thing, Arthur just kept his arms around Eames, waiting until Eames made another move to pull away. He hoped this was at least somewhat comforting, even if it didn't actually _fix_ whatever the problem was. He just wanted Eames to know Arthur was there for him, without being obnoxiously dramatic about it. 

They stood in the doorway like that, arms around each other, for a few more seconds. When Eames shifted, Arthur assumed it was to end the hug and send him away, perhaps with some sort of question about what Arthur had been doing, acting in a way that was so atypical. Instead, Eames pressed his face into Arthur's neck, breathing a large shuddering sigh against his skin, and Arthur responded automatically, squeezing Eames tighter in a way that had never been all that instinctual with anyone he'd ever dated before. "Hey," he murmured, rubbing one hand hesitantly over Eames's back sort of like he'd done when he was sick. "You okay?"

Eames nodded against him and mumbled something into Arthur's collarbone before stepping back and standing up straight. "Yes. Sorry. Thank you."

"Are you sure?"

Eames cleared his throat and nodded again. "It's just been an odd week for me. Sorry if I wasn't quite myself this evening."

Arthur looked at Eames for a moment, trying to evaluate how much honesty might be in that statement, and how much of it might just be a simple, flimsy excuse. He was usually pretty good at judging that sort of thing, and Eames still definitely seemed to be deliberately not saying something, but he really didn't think prying was going to do either of them any good tonight. "Dealing with more stress than usual?"

"Something like that, yes." He gave Arthur a smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. Arthur had seen Eames make more believable, realistic expressions while mimicking someone. It was a little disconcerting, especially since Arthur was so used to Eames's energy and easy affection and warmth. 

"Okay," Arthur said after a moment, letting Eames get away with it for tonight, until he could think of a way to bring it up without making it uncomfortable for them both. "Seriously, call me tomorrow night. And get some sleep tonight. Take advantage of the week away from school." He leaned in and gave Eames the kiss he'd meant to give originally, letting it linger just a second longer than usual, a little softer. It seemed to relax the tightness around Eames's eyes just a fraction, though that may have just been an illusion of the porch light. "Have a good night, Eames."

He walked slowly down the path to where his car was parked outside one of the garages, hearing the front door close behind Eames as Arthur got close to his vehicle. He sighed to himself as he slid into the driver's seat. Maybe this small party he was planning for Eames would actually do some measurable good. Maybe Eames needed to have some time to hang out with people who thought he was just as great as Arthur now knew he really was and who were glad to have him as a friend, and just...do something social that wasn't related to school or his internship. Arthur wasn't quite built the same way, preferring to recharge on his own rather than getting a boost from the energy of others, but he thought that, when it came down to it, Eames might really benefit from the chance, even if it wasn't going to be for a little while yet.

Arthur nodded to himself and powered his phone back on, listening to the frequent, quick vibrations as all of the notifications came through as it booted up while he wove his way out of Eames's gated community. It was earlier than Arthur had thought they might end their night out together, but that just meant he still had some time to return phone calls, emails, and text messages. He was going to be spending more time on the phone than he enjoyed, but he could put up with that—especially for Eames.


	24. Chapter 24

The pastry arts classroom was empty, yet smelled vaguely of butter and sugar, as Eames made his way from the front door to the small cupboard off the pantry that served as an office. There were no voices coming from inside the little room, but Eames sensed movement, so he knocked politely instead of simply walking in and disturbing any occupants, waiting for the "come in!" that floated out through where the door was slightly ajar.

"Eames!" Yusuf greeted him, looking pleased at the unexpected visit. "Come on in, have a seat. To what do I owe the pleasure?" He glanced around the tiny room as if searching for something in particular, finally breathing a soft "ah-ha!" and reaching for a gold and green tin with a rose painted upon the front. "Turkish delight?" he offered, holding the tin out where Eames could easily reach the delicacies inside.

"No," Eames said with a shake of his head. He sat in the unoccupied chair just inside the door, tucking his book bag between his feet. "But thank you for the offer."

Yusuf looked at him for a moment as if Eames had morphed into someone else in front of his very eyes. "You've never declined a sweet before in your life." While that wasn't strictly true, Eames did have to admit it was out of character, especially when the person offering such a thing was an old friend. "What brings you to my tiny corner of the Institute this rainy afternoon?"

"Just came for a chat," Eames said with a smile. "It's been a while."

"I suppose it has," Yusuf agreed. "Between my schedule and yours, it's not the easiest thing to find time to catch a pint and a match, is it?"

"No, it's not." 

Yusuf's smile, always soft and polite, faded a fraction. "Is there something wrong?"

"What makes you ask?"

The other man shrugged, shaking his head a little. "To be quite honest, you look a little strained. I don't think I've seen you look like that in years, and that was when you were still trying to juggle three jobs before you went full time at Tamarind Bay. Are the hours getting to you, the combination of your internship requirements on top of a full course load?"

"No, everything's fine," Eames lied, then saw the look on Yusuf's face that said he clearly didn't believe it. It was also a look of genuine concern. Eames felt something within him crack just the slightest bit, a hairline fracture within a sheet of glass, and he sighed. He'd been friends with Yusuf too long to not be honest with him. Besides, he trusted his counsel. "I've had a bit on my mind lately."

"What sort of things?"

Eames hesitated. He _did_ want to be honest, but he didn't quite feel like baring his soul completely. "I think I've likely overestimated some recent things in my life. Perhaps raised my expectations too high."

"Is Pacifica not giving you what you hoped to get from it?"

"No, I don't mean culinary school," Eames said, shaking his head. In all honesty, he hadn't expected anything drastic from that, other than a degree and certifications, with the added bonus of expanding his repertoire in regional cuisines and recipes, and honing some of the more classic techniques. School was delivering well enough in that regard. "More personal developments, I suppose."

Yusuf looked at Eames for quite a while, seeming to debate with himself as to what sorts of things might be appropriate to say. He knew Eames was seeing someone, even knew it was another student, and one he had under his tutelage. Eames had never _specifically_ mentioned Arthur by name, and that was by design—he hadn't wanted Arthur to worry that he might influence Yusuf's opinion of him while they were teacher and student, especially as Yusuf was a member of the pastry program's faculty, and thus was someone Arthur was likely to take several classes from, until he graduated from the program. It was possible Yusuf knew it was Arthur that Eames was involved with, but he knew his friend well enough to know that he'd never use the information to color how he treated anyone as a student. "Are there problems in your social relationships? Or a romantic one?"

"The latter, I suppose." He'd whinged at Yusuf about boyfriends before, commiserating with each other about failed relationships more than once over a pint or a meal late at night, had sought and taken advice when he'd really needed it, had even crashed on his sofa for a week when he'd been fired and dumped in one brutal stroke. Yusuf had always been a good friend.

"Well, what sort of problems?"

"I don't..." Eames said, trailing off, suddenly aware that he didn't want to really voice some of the more insidious issues, as if doing so would cause them to worsen, become impossible to ignore, as he was trying to do with them now. He groaned and put his head in his hands, elbows resting on his knees.

"Eames," Yusuf said gently, laying his hand on Eames's shoulder. "We've known each other for years. You know me, and I know you. So I feel I must ask—are you really thinking there's a problem there, or are you just afraid there could be one? Is this, I suppose I'm asking, something you're doubting because it might feel like something that might be worth sticking around for, keeping you in place, and that's not something you've done much of?"

Eames felt that tiny crack within him lengthen just a fraction more. He raised his head, sat up, and looked at Yusuf, who was fixing him with a look that was both gentle and pointed. "I don't know." The more he turned it over in his mind, the more it made a sort of sense. He never really had stayed in any one place very long, since he'd been very young. Moving around was a natural thing for him, going where the wind seemed to want to take him. He'd been feeling just the softest of breezes, hinting at possible new directions, when Yusuf had suggested giving culinary school a try, to give him extra ammunition to meet whatever challenges he found himself facing, wherever he went next. Because even Yusuf had known he wasn't likely to stay around on any sort of permanent basis, having no real root keeping him tied to one place in any sort of long-term capacity. Whenever he'd envisioned a future, he'd seen himself in a kitchen, because that was his calling. He'd never widened the focus on any of the images, never got a glimpse of where he might be in regards to geographical location, because that had never been important. Moving was a simple fact of life for him; staying in place was not.

The only real change to any of these vague scenes of the future was that in some of them, the only other identifiable face in the kitchen was Arthur's. He wasn't in every one of them, no, but he had been in the background of a few, some sort of grounding, solid energy at Eames's back. No one else had ever been recognizable before. Eames knew better than to think that having Arthur in his future was part of the grand plan in his life—but that didn't mean it wasn't a distant sort of hope, even if he knew the logistics of their lives, their patterns of behavior, weren't in their favor. 

He hadn't given any direct, concrete thought to Arthur being a fixture in his life at a point past their time at Pacifica—but he also hadn't envisioned anyone else in his place. 

Maybe it _was_ that he was afraid of the things Yusuf had suggested. Eames wasn't especially familiar with fear, whether of new things or of loss. And maybe the latter was what was wrong with him now, and his mind was simply magnifying that fear and distorting it.

If only there didn't seem to be so much evidence that lent credibility to those fears. Eames couldn't quite shake the conversation he'd had with Ariadne about her boyfriend's infidelity, nor could he ignore how Arthur had taken up a number of those same behaviors of late, nor could he explain away the uneasy feeling he'd had when Arthur had so hastily lied to his face about why they couldn't spend time at his flat, or the way he'd brushed off the discussion of attending a wedding where there would be a number of people from Arthur's life outside of Eames around, or the way he'd nearly twitched each time his phone had gone off while they were out the other afternoon, refusing to answer it and keeping quiet about why someone should seem so desperate to get hold of him.

"It might be something worth examining," Yusuf said, giving his shoulder a squeeze before letting go. There was noise outside the office, a few voices chatting out in the classroom, and Eames stood, ready to go and let Yusuf get on with the business of teaching. "Perhaps things aren't what you fear."

Eames nodded. "You're right. Thank you, Yusuf." He exited the office and ducked out of the classroom, pausing to look at his phone once he was out in the corridor. He had to be at Exquis in under an hour, but he'd be off three hours after that. Suddenly, what he wanted most was to see Arthur. He couldn't do it now, but he could swing by this evening on his way home, and Eames set his mind on stopping by and seeing Arthur, surprised at how very much he seemed to need to do it.


	25. Chapter 25

Of all the calls he was having to make in order to get the party for Eames set and running smoothly, the one Arthur hadn't realized would be so hard was the one to Ariadne. 

He'd told her about his idea the first time he'd seen her after he'd had it, as they were sitting in Cobb's class, waiting for the lecture to begin, able to talk about it only because Eames was still home, sleeping off the last after-effects of the stomach virus he'd managed to pick up. She'd seemed excited about it, and definitely willing to help. She'd even texted him about it a few times. It wasn't until Arthur really started thinking through the details that he realized there might be some complications, causing him to delay most of his responses while he tried to figure a way around the problems.

He'd originally thought of asking her about getting a cake from the bakery where she interned. He'd been by the place once or twice in his years in LA, and they'd always seemed like a decent option for something fancier than the standard grocery store-bought cakes. He'd even picked up his phone to call her once, ask if she could recommend some options from what her bakery offered—and then promptly remembered just how much she hated working for the place, and how she never seemed to get to work on any actual orders.

So that was one option he was down.

His next thought was that, fuck it, they were pastry arts students—why couldn't they just make the damned thing? Neither he nor Ariadne might _quite_ be at the point of being able to make some three-dimensional thing with lights and music and so much fondant and gum paste that they'd need an additional, virtually undecorated sheet cake to actually _serve_ to people, but nothing that elaborate was necessary. Between the two of them, they could come up with something that looked good _and_ was edible. Arthur had seen her final project in Chef Yusuf's cake class last semester, and trusted that she had a good eye for cake decorating, and enough skill to back up most of her visions. It should be the easy solution, then, working with her outside of class in much the same way that he worked with her _in_ class.

The trouble with that was...well...Arthur thought it would be more than a little awkward to ask her to help him make his boyfriend a large, sugary display of how appreciated he was, so soon after her asshole boyfriend had dumped her. He'd been trying not to rub his relationship with Eames in her face, or even force her to deal with it too much, ever since she'd become single again. 

Eventually, he'd sucked it up, talked to Charlie and Maureen, and gotten permission to do the cake at Touch of Sweet, on his own time outside of his standard internship hours, and paying for the cost of all materials and use of equipment. It was a shitload cheaper than paying for a fully-decorated cake literally anywhere else in town, and all it really cost him, other than about thirty dollars' worth of ingredients for the cake, fillings, and the icings, was several hours of free time or potential sleep—including one evening he'd be spending helping with the full-bakery inventory everyone dreaded so much. 

He hadn't told Ariadne about his final decision. So when she texted him one afternoon with _hey, i meant to ask after chef yusuf's class but forgot: is there anything i can do to help with the party?_ Arthur tried to figure out some option that would take a bit of the burden off of himself without adding too much to her own full schedule.

He finally called her back that evening, after a trip to the grocery store. "I'm sorry I didn't get back to you sooner," he said, juggling his keys and plastic bags and gallon of milk together, trying to get through one of the side doors of his building without dropping any of that or his phone or getting caught by the bag of school stuff slung over his back. "I've been busy lately."

"Yeah, I've heard that," Ariadne said, and something about her tone made him wince guiltily. "It's fine. Anyway, you said there was something I could help you with for the thing in May? What is it? I'm up for whatever you need done."

"I need you to keep Eames occupied that morning and early afternoon," Arthur said, finally having success with the door and making it into the building from the parking garage. 

"Yeah, I can totally do that! Basically just keep him busy out somewhere so you can get a few last details in place without him catching on, right?"

"Exactly. I've been doing pretty well at keeping it a secret from him, but I can't have him discovering that I've—" Arthur stopped dead as he rounded the corner, catching sight of Eames standing in the hallway, leaning up against the wall next to his front door. "Shit," he muttered, noticing Eames had already spotted him. "Hey, I've gotta go. I'll call you back later." He ended the call quickly, barely hearing her "okay" before he hung up and shoved the phone in his pocket awkwardly, groceries in one hand and keys still in the other. He'd apologize to her later. "What are you doing here?"

It was obviously the wrong question to ask, or at least the wrong way to ask it, because Eames's face, which had already looked sort of stormy, turned just a little darker. "I'd wanted to see you. But it seems I'm interrupting something."

Arthur flinched just a little, trying to hide it by moving past Eames and unlocking his front door. "No, it's fine." He ran through his morning in his head, remembering with some measure of relief that he'd put anything involving the party into a folder that was safely in his messenger bag. "Come on in."

"I didn't mean to make you have to stop your call so abruptly," Eames said as he followed Arthur inside. There was an iciness in his tone, and Arthur swallowed. How much of that conversation had Eames heard? Had he figured out that Arthur was planning on surprising him?

"No, seriously, don't worry about it," Arthur said, trying to be casual about it. It wasn't like he'd hung up on the manager of the place where they'd be hosting the party. He put the milk and the few produce items he'd bought into the fridge. "It was no one."

Eames made a sort of disbelieving humming noise, snagging the loaf of bread from the nearly empty grocery bag and setting it on the usual place on the kitchen counter. "Oh? You seem to be talking to no one a lot these days." There was a leading sort of inflection to the words, like he knew what Arthur was up to and just wanted him to admit it. Arthur tried to remember any other moments when he'd been careless about his plans and Eames might have gotten enough clues to piece things together. It didn't mean he'd have to cancel the party, if Eames found out, but Arthur really had hoped to keep it a surprise until the moment Eames walked in to see a bunch of his friends gathered in one place.

"Have I?" He was usually a lot cooler than this, able to roll with surprises and handle an unexpected situation with ease. But he was operating on a severe lack of sleep these last few weeks, and Eames was giving off some really weird vibes that were making Arthur feel supremely uneasy in a way he virtually never did.

"Quite often," Eames said. "So what exactly is it that you've been up to lately, that you're trying to hide from me?"

Arthur hesitated. "Nothing." It sounded like such an obvious lie, even to his own ears, but he couldn't come up with a believable excuse fast enough. Normally, that was the sort of detail he'd have thought up weeks ago, ready for just such an eventuality, but he'd been distracted enough with work and school and just being with Eames, and Arthur was just about at his physical and mental limit, adding coordinating a surprise party to everything else. 

Arthur expected Eames to say something sarcastic, or maybe even to finally just tell him he'd figured out what Arthur had been planning, even if only in the broadest of strokes. What he didn't expect was for Eames to just sort of...crumble. There was an almost visible cracking of something inside him, the thunderous sort of irritation or maybe even anger built to a point where it snapped whatever was holding it in, seeping out and leaving something hollow behind. Arthur was barely processing the sudden change in Eames's entire appearance, and very nearly missed the words that accompanied it: "If there's someone you'd rather be with than me, you really ought to just tell me so."

It felt like someone had kicked him in the stomach. He just stared at Eames for a moment, temporarily unsure he'd actually heard the words he'd thought he did. This...this wasn't the disappointment of having to admit he hadn't kept the surprise a secret well enough. This was a sick kind of shock, suddenly realizing how incorrectly his actions had been interpreted, how far his intentions had been misconstrued. And it was hurt underneath that, knowing that Eames actually thought him capable of such a thing, a swirl of anger coiling with that hurt.

Arthur stood there for a moment, speechless, unbreathing, as the reality of those words sunk in, waiting for Eames to take them back. And he realized with each passing second that Eames wouldn't, because he believed them.


	26. Chapter 26

The three hours at Exquis should have been easy to get through, nothing more than a quick shift of prep, tasks easily done on his own, little more than the motions of routine. But Eames found his mind kept drifting back to his conversation with Yusuf, the simple, gentle way his friend had pointed out Eames might be overreacting to Arthur's recent distance. It wasn't as if Arthur had pushed him away completely—he'd done that once already, angry for allowing himself to get distracted from his studies and taking it out on Eames before realizing his error. Eames hated that his subconscious might just be doing the same sort of thing—looking for a way to blame something or someone else because of his own difficulty dealing with the challenges of something new and previously unexplored. The more he dwelled upon it, the more he thought he simply needed to see Arthur again, to spend even just a few minutes together. He thought back to the way Arthur had seemed to sense that he was upset that night they'd gone to the cinema together, trading in their standard parting ritual for an actual embrace and slightly more intimate kiss, soothing away a bit of his ridiculous worries and making him think that he really had been overreacting.

Eames needed something like that again tonight—would even ask directly for it, if necessary.

He stepped up to Arthur's front door and knocked, disappointed to find he wasn't yet home from his classes. Eames looked at the time. Arthur might be back soon, as it wasn't long until when Eames knew he'd be likely to eat something and climb into bed, so long as his schedule hadn't changed much over the last week or two. There was always the chance he'd met up with someone else, or gotten stuck having to take care of something that needed his attention, but Eames decided to press his luck. He'd wait half an hour for Arthur to come home. If he still hadn't returned, Eames would head back to the house, try to eat, finish his reading for Asian Cuisine, and climb into bed. He supposed he could simply _phone_ Arthur, but enough of his calls had ended up going to voicemail lately, texts left unreturned for hours at a time, and Eames thought that would leave his mood worse than it already was. 

After one semi-awkward interaction with one of Arthur's neighbors—who appeared to be heading for the laundry room, side-eying the stranger leaning up against the wall next to someone's door—Eames heard someone enter from the building's private car park with some evidence of struggling with the door. He caught Arthur's voice, finding that just hearing it already made him feel a fraction better, as he'd been increasingly certain Arthur wouldn't make it back home before Eames gave up and left.

That changed quite suddenly once Eames picked out the words Arthur was saying.

He missed whatever bit of conversation had taken place either in Arthur's car or in the parking structure, but Arthur's voice was clear in the empty corridor as he approached, and Eames quite clearly heard "I've been doing pretty well at keeping it a secret from him, but I can't have him discovering that I've—" before Arthur rounded the corner and stopped in his tracks, catching sight of Eames standing at his door. He heard the muttered curse as well, and a hasty, mumbled promise to call the person on the other end back. That, coupled with the slightly fearful look on Arthur's face as he fumbled his mobile into his pocket, made him aware of that uncomfortable crack he'd felt when chatting with Yusuf earlier in the day, that bit of sharp brittleness where there should be something solid.

It didn't get any better, either, with Arthur dodging all of Eames's attempts to find out what he'd been up to, desperate to hear some logical explanation that could dispel the worry that was gnawing at his guts and seeping its way into all his thoughts. With every bit of evasion, something within Eames tightened, and his efforts to keep his voice neutral grew increasingly more difficult and unsuccessful. 

Every time Arthur's face grew guiltier, every time he so obviously lied, Eames felt a little sicker. 

Finally, he found he could take no more of dancing around things, implying he'd noticed Arthur's recent actions. He put the loaf of French bread Arthur had purchased in its customary place, in the corner of the kitchen nearest where Arthur stored the cutting boards, and let himself turn to face Arthur, not letting his gaze drop when he asked, "So what exactly is it that you've been up to lately, that you're trying to hide from me?" 

"Nothing." There was such obvious hesitation in the reply, so clear an expression of guilt and fear on Arthur's face, and Eames could see the wheels turning in Arthur's head, trying to understand when Eames had caught on to the ongoing deception, or perhaps just struggling to come up with a story that would cover his actions.

And rather than be the spark that ignited the fuse of Eames's anger, that last lie proved instead to be the last bit of pressure on that crack inside his chest, pushing with enough force to splinter it, sharp bits now exposed and slicing him just enough that he could feel himself bleeding, slow and steady, until he was left feeling weak and cold.

"If there's someone you'd rather be with, other than me, you really ought to just tell me so," Eames said after a moment, his voice quiet. If he spoke it any louder, Arthur would be able to hear the waver in it, and Eames didn't want that. 

Arthur stared at him for what felt like an eternity, his face a mask of shock, before he seemed to get over the surprise at being called out on what was going on. "What—what makes you think I want anyone else?" He tried to play it off, huffing a short laugh that had only the most forced tinge of humor to it. "I don't even _like_ most other people." When Eames didn't answer that, Arthur's small, joking smile faded. "Seriously, are you fucking crazy? You have to know better than that."

Eames shook his head. "You've been avoiding questions about your plans for weeks. You take calls and texts now at all hours, and you step outside the room to do it, looking guilty, but you let most of _my_ calls go to voicemail. We rarely spend any time together, because you're always making vague excuses for why you're too busy to come over, and you won't let me over here. And just minutes ago, I heard you tell someone that you're doing a good job of keeping a secret that you can't have someone discovering. So tell me, Arthur, what's that look like to you, viewed from my end?"

"It's not that!" 

"Well, then, what is it?"

Arthur opened his mouth, then closed it with a frustrated noise, sighing though his nose. "It's not fucking _that_ , okay?" he said after a moment. "I can't tell you what it _is_ , but it's not what you've been thinking. I'd never fucking do something like that, to anyone. Goddamn it, Eames, trust me on this. You know me better than that, I know you do."

This time, it was Eames who hesitated. The expression of surprised hurt and frustration on Arthur's face looked genuine enough. His posture, though tense, had a measure of something open in it, far from the closed-off thing Eames would expect if his suspicions had proven true. And Arthur was correct—Eames _had_ thought he knew Arthur better than to do something like that, thought he'd even had some of the most important bits of who Arthur really was, deep down underneath the prickly, serious surface he presented to the world, figured out. At least he _had_ , before he'd started making Eames think about his recent furtiveness. Could it really be something else that was responsible for Arthur's recent behavior? _Any_ bloody evidence to support that would be nice, it really would. But Arthur didn't seem the sort to change so drastically in such a short span of time, and perhaps that should be the biggest clue, as Eames knew—absolutely knew—that Arthur was often direct to a fault. He was unlikely to lead someone along for fun and games or out of laziness. He'd never _not_ been direct before, when he'd been displeased. Why would that so suddenly change?

The answer, Eames wanted so desperately to believe, was that it wouldn't.

"You're right," he said finally. He saw the way Arthur seemed to immediately lose some of the tension in his body at the words, seemed to breathe a little more. It wasn't the same sort of relief someone displayed when they narrowly avoided being caught doing wrong and suddenly found themselves getting away with it. Eames couldn't quite pinpoint how he knew that, but he did. It seemed much more like the relief of someone falsely accused having the charges dismissed, a sort of justified victory or triumph over having the truth acknowledged. Just seeing the subtleties of Arthur's reactions made Eames realize the error in his accusations and worries. He still didn't know what Arthur was hiding—and at least Arthur had admitted in some way that he really _was_ hiding something, keeping _some_ secret from Eames, for whatever reason—but it seemed somewhat easier to believe now that it wasn't what Eames had feared the most deeply.

"So you believe me?"

There was a firmness in Arthur's tone, a hint of challenge that brought with it a shade of self-righteousness that more firmly evidenced his innocence in Eames's mind. It was echoed in the way Arthur looked at him so directly, not so much an open-ended inquiry he expected answered in one of any number of ways, but as a verification of indisputable fact.

"Yes." There was still some small part of him, some soft voice in the back of his head that whispered doubts, that wouldn't let go of the worry, but it was easier to ignore with Arthur here, looking at him so directly, so steadily. He made a move towards Arthur—who was still standing in front of him here in the kitchen, closer than they'd been a moment ago, though still far enough away that Eames couldn't easily put his hand on his Arthur's arm—then stopped, uncertain how open Arthur might be to any sort of familiar or intimate interaction now. "I think perhaps I've been pushing myself more than I'm used to and haven't had the chance to relax properly, and it's messed with my head."

Arthur startled him then, stepping purposely forward and pulling Eames close, one arm lifted to circle around his back and hold him in place. The movement was so unexpected, the gesture so intentionally comforting, that Eames inhaled sharply in surprise, holding the breath until Arthur's other arm slid around Eames's waist, and he let it out in a great, shaky gust. "I'm sorry," Eames mumbled, recognizing the echo of the other week's interaction on the doorstep of Niko's house in this one here in Arthur's flat. Both times, Eames had let jealousy and suspicion get their claws in him, and both times, Arthur had taken deliberate action, giving unrequested comfort when it had been so sorely needed. He pressed his face into the canvas of the chef's coat Arthur was still wearing, breathing deep the scents he knew so well as Arthur's—his fabric softener, the soap he preferred, the lingering hints of sugar and chocolate and vanilla and butter, the unique, indescribable layer that was simply the warmth and scent of the sweat on his skin. "I really am sorry," he said, eyes closed, as he cautiously slid his hands up Arthur's waist, crossing them over the small of his back before resting them around Arthur's middle in an embrace he was somewhat surprised Arthur allowed. "I think the last chat I had with Ariadne about her boyfriend's infidelities worked on me more than I realized." Arthur flinched against him, and Eames wished he hadn't said that, hadn't reminded Arthur again what Eames had just accused him of. He pulled back and looked at Arthur, whose face was calm, in a way that was neither closed nor open, but somewhat deliberately set. "But I trust you, and I'm sorry I overreacted and leapt to conclusions."

One side of Arthur's mouth twitched upwards in something like a sardonic smile. "All things considered, I can see how I didn't help squelch your delusions. But like I said, I'd never do that sort of thing to anyone. It's not how I'm built, Eames."

Eames nodded. "I know. I should have remembered from the beginning." He stepped back, completely out of Arthur's space, and straightened his jumper. "I should go."

Arthur looked as if he were about to protest, but he paused for a moment before looking at Eames with his head tilted just a little. "Are we okay?"

Eames realized that, given what he'd accused Arthur of and Arthur's apparent innocence in the matter, this evening could have turned out far differently, ending in something loud and ugly, culminating in the dissolution of their relationship. He didn't know exactly how many past relationships Arthur had had, nor how or why most of them had ended, but he himself had more than a handful that had terminated messily, fault assigned to either one—though usually both—parties. 

He never wanted to count this one amongst their number.

"Yes," he said with a nod. "If you feel we are." He bid Arthur a good night, apologizing again, and headed for the door.

Arthur followed him, snagging Eames's hand just as he was stepping through the doorway and tugging him back to be able to brush a kiss against the corner of Eames's mouth before murmuring his own good night. It was a familiar gesture, one Eames was grateful for. He detected just the slightest note of tension in it, though, some small measure of reservation in the action, and no part of him could blame Arthur for that after the last ten minutes. 

He made his way slowly to his car parked along the street, thinking over exactly how badly the evening could have gone, had Arthur's reactions been any different. Eames still didn't know what it was Arthur was up to, nor if he'd ever actually know, but at least he knew he wasn't completely mad for suspecting Arthur was keeping things from him. He still felt like shite, but at least a large part of that was shame at appearing to have been so wrong in his assumptions regarding Arthur's actions and motivations. No one liked to be wrong, but Eames especially disliked being so off in his reading of other people, particularly as he was usually fairly good at it, and it had saved his arse a number of times in the past. He really must be more stressed than he'd realized, if it was affecting his judgment so severely.

Though he'd told Arthur he was—that they were—all right, and though he'd received a response that it was okay and to forget about it after he'd texted Arthur another apology as he lay in bed that night, unable to fall asleep, Eames discovered that the small voice of doubt and worry, the one he thought had been silenced by his last few minutes with Arthur this evening, still had a place of residence in his head, even if it was pushed further back than before.

It was quieter, yes. But it was still there, and Eames didn't like it one bit—especially as he didn't know if it would ever go away for good.


	27. Chapter 27

Once Eames had left the apartment, Arthur took a step back from everything that had happened and let himself really examine it in a way he hadn't done in the moment, when his primary response had been shock. And this was something he _definitely_ needed to analyze.

Eames had said he believed him, Arthur's vehement denial of infidelity apparently getting through whatever fucked-up headspace Eames'd been in to even consider such a thing. He'd seemed apologetic enough, actually remorseful about making the accusation in the first place. Arthur was pretty sure that Eames actually _had_ seen the truth, and knew better. Knew _him_ better. 

That wasn't to say Arthur wasn't at least a little upset about the whole thing, though, especially now that the shock was wearing off.

Their relationship was still fairly new, only jumping over the line of surprising friendship and into something with more romantic undertones a few short months before. They were still learning things about each other all the time, habits and mental frameworks and motivations that got mapped out with every interaction—and they were bound to get things wrong, to ascribe their own past experiences and thoughts to the other's words and actions, seeing each other through the lenses they'd acquired throughout their lives. Arthur didn't _think_ Eames had accused him because he himself had a guilty conscience, or was inherently unfaithful in his own right; he believed more that it was, objectively, the most common or likely explanation for Arthur's behaviors as he tried to keep Eames from figuring out what he was planning as a surprise, especially if Eames had ever been cheated on before.

Or if, for example, he had been discussing being cheated on with Ariadne, who had apparently learned at least part of the reason she and Jim hadn't worked out since the last time she'd talked to Arthur about the whole thing.

Arthur sighed and grabbed the last bottle of chocolate oatmeal stout out of his fridge, snagging his school bag on his way into the living room and settling on the couch with his binder of notes for Spirits, Beers, and Brews so he could review the most recent lecture on saké in preparation for tomorrow's quiz. It should have taken no more than ten minutes—fifteen if he was being especially thorough—but, nearly an hour later, Arthur was less than halfway through the material. He just couldn't quite get his mind off Eames and onto his studies.

The last real thing he'd asked Eames was if they were okay—meaning, of course, if Eames was satisfied Arthur wasn't fucking cheating on him—and Eames had hesitated before saying they were, so long as Arthur thought so. At the time, Arthur had been willing to drop it completely, as if it had never happened, ready to let the evening serve mostly as a reminder to one, not act so fucking suspicious about things, and two, that Eames wasn't an idiot, especially when it came to noticing little behaviors about someone. But now that he was here alone with time to think, Arthur had to wonder just how far Eames's imagination had run with the whole scenario—if it was some vague, dark cloud of worry and suspicion, or if he'd had a theory as to whom, specifically, Arthur might otherwise be seeing—as if he had time outside of school and his internship to sneak in an additional relationship, anyway.

Arthur hesitated with the bottle halfway to his lips, the faintest of ideas on that last thought taking a bit of shape. There was one person he'd been talking about more often, someone he knew Eames was aware he'd hung out with alone lately. The idea was fucking ridiculous—but then again, so was the whole concept of Arthur cheating on Eames for any reason instead of just breaking off the relationship and moving on, if he'd had anything remotely like that inclination.

And to make it all even better, the truth of the matter was not that Arthur didn't value what he had with Eames, but that he was trying to do something to prove he _did_. The fucking irony of the situation alone was almost enough to kill him. He shook his head and tried to force himself to concentrate on his class notes instead, knowing that dwelling on everything was only going to end up with him going nuts and muttering to himself.

He was saved from his absolutely appalling lack of focus ten minutes later, when his phone rang. Arthur reached for it, grateful for the interruption and excuse to have something he _had_ to pay attention to, hoping it might be someone at the restaurant he'd contacted about some menu questions getting back to him. Instead of that number on the display, though, it was Danny's information coming through on the caller ID. Arthur had one brief, bitter thought that it was good that Danny hadn't called an hour ago, when Eames might have seen the name pop up on Arthur's phone and taken that as some other indication of the bullshit he'd been suspecting, and then answered the call. "Hey, Danny."

"Arthur! How's it going?"

Arthur made a face. He wasn't even remotely likely to give an honest, thorough answer to that question. Best to follow the general social script. "It's going. What's up?"

There was a pause from Danny's end. "Dude. I just had a couple random things for you, but if this is a bad time, I can just talk to you about it when I see you tomorrow."

"Why would it be a bad time?" Arthur looked at the time display on his cable box. It wasn't exactly early, but it was a normal hour for someone to be awake—and besides, Danny had to be up just as early as he did. 

"I dunno, you just sound kinda...weird."

Arthur cleared his throat, then made a conscious effort to sound as normal as possible. "Sorry. It's nothing. Don't worry about it. So what's up?"

He could practically hear Danny shrug at Arthur's dismissal of whatever was making him sound off. "All right, first off: I went digging, and I totally have that speed rack thing my cousin and I built last year, hanging out in my garage. So if you're still trying to find a way to get that cake you're making to the restaurant in one piece, I can totally help you there. Fits like a glove in the back of my truck, secured in place and everything, and it'll be protected from the elements. Sound good?"

Well, at least _that_ was some fucking good news. Arthur's car wasn't the most reliable of vehicles in general—though it was a hell of a lot better now, since he'd had to unexpectedly dump a load of money into it last semester to get it running again when it crapped out on him—and the thought of having to transport another cake in it wasn't exactly something he'd been relishing. He'd done that once before, for his final last semester in his cake class; it had shot his nerves to hell, having to rig a way to keep the box in place in the trunk, since he couldn't buckle the damned thing in up front without damaging it—and that particular cake had at least been pretty sturdy, since it was only decorated Styrofoam cake forms. The thought of doing that with a larger, edible cake made Arthur twitch. "Yeah, that's fantastic, thanks. You sure you don't work that day? Did Charlie and Maureen put the schedules out for that week already?"

"Psh, don't worry about it. I should be off by that point in the day, even if I do work. And if, for whatever reason, I'm not, Shanna's off and she'll totally play courier in my place. Which brings me to my second reason for calling. She said she's tired of just hearing about you—she wants to know if you want to come over, hang out by the pool, have some barbecue and some drinks, that sort of thing, so she can meet you. Bring the dude you're seeing, if you think he'll be up for it. We can wait till the end of the semester, even, if that'll make the scheduling easier. But seriously, man, Shanna's pretty set on having you over at some point, even if it means you'll critique her cooking. Actually, she might even invite that sort of thing. Girl's kinda weird like that."

"She know you call her weird?"

Danny snorted. "Dude. Love her to death, she puts up with my ass, but, you know, weird. Not that I can say shit—I met her at Comic Con five years ago, and our first-ever interaction was her, in some really impressive cosplay and body paint, sewing a piece of my Legolas outfit back together while I was still wearing it, so we both kinda knew what we were getting into right away. You should ask her about it when you meet her. Funny story. She tells it better. So, come on, what do you say? You and your boyfriend, over for dinner and drinks sometime next month? Or do I have to kidnap you from the bakery for a quick little lunch meetup so she can meet you and satisfy her curiosity?"

Arthur hesitated. Though he wasn't the most social of people, he had no objections to meeting Danny's fiancée and spending an afternoon at their place, especially since he clicked with Danny more than he had with pretty much anyone else he'd ever worked with. But he had no idea if Eames might be up for such a thing. Meeting people was something Eames seemed to be much more eager or relaxed about and, normally, Arthur would just assume he could count him in for at least the one meetup. But given the earlier events of the evening, and his suspicion that Eames might have considered Danny to be filling the role of whoever the hell Arthur was hypothetically cheating with, as nearly the only other person Arthur mentioned by name outside of Ariadne and his supervisors at the bakery in any sort of positive context...well, Arthur just wasn't sure. "I'll have to check with Eames. But even if he doesn't end up joining us, yeah, tell Shanna that something after finals should work."

"Awesome. I'll let her know. And I'll stick that rack in the back of my truck tonight so I can show you tomorrow and we can get a game plan for loading that cake in place. I sure hope your boy appreciates this surprise party thing, dude. You're kinda going all-out for it, huh?"

"Something like that, yeah." He'd already put down a non-refundable deposit for the restaurant's private room and contacted a few dozen of Eames's friends about the event, a little more than half of whom had already confirmed they'd be there. Arthur didn't even want to think about the hassle involved in cancelling the whole thing if the interaction he'd had with Eames this evening had gone differently. 

"At least you seem to have the head for planning details and stuff. I know you've been stressing about it, but everything you've mentioned about it sounds pretty awesome. And just think, in two and a half weeks, it'll all be over and you can go back to just worrying about school and looking forward to the day you don't have to hear anyone call you Cream Puff at four in the morning."

"Twenty-three days," Arthur said, automatically.

"Of-fucking-course you have a countdown going," Danny said with a laugh. "All right, man, I've gotta go. I'll see you bright and early. Have a good night."

"You too."

Arthur hung up and slumped back onto the couch. He'd already been failing at not thinking about Eames's accusation before Danny had called, but the conversation had brought it directly to the front of his mind anyway. Some small, half-buried part of him considered just getting the party over with, so Eames could see that everything was normal again afterwards. That was it. No further extra work, no fretting about getting every detail as perfect as possible, just going with whatever parts of the plan were already in place. 

Yeah. Arthur could let go and toss it all up in the air, taking his hands off all the details and planning. Sure.

Fat chance.

He reached for his beer and his notebook again, then gave up and went to pour the rest of the bottle down the sink. He suddenly didn't have a taste for it—or anything else—anymore tonight. The conversation with Eames had totally killed his appetite, and it didn't look like it was coming back anytime soon. 

This was stupid, Arthur thought to himself, heading into his room to get ready for bed. Things could really only go one of two ways from here. Either he could be hurt or pissed off that Eames thought he'd do something that shitty and Arthur could resent him for that, or he could move the fuck past it and give Eames a free pass on being stupid like Eames had given _him_ when he'd tried to break off their relationship towards its beginning. And if he chose the latter option, he could suck it up and give Eames the party he'd been planning from the beginning and _show_ him he was important, and that Arthur thought highly enough of him to want to put this sort of energy and effort into planning something special for him. There weren't a lot of other options he was willing to entertain.

Really, there was only the one option in his mind the more he analyzed it all. Option two it was. Because Arthur was _not_ going to be the one to fuck up what was the only romantic relationship he'd actually given a shit about since his first year out of college. What he and Eames had wasn't without flaws—obviously—but it was a hell of a lot better than Arthur had expected, and he wasn't going to let it go easily. Eames was one of the only people Arthur considered worth really connecting with and opening up to, and Arthur was damned well going to show him that he meant something, or die trying.


	28. Chapter 28

Eames wondered, as he stared at the bottles of alcohol in Niko's extensive liquor cabinet, if getting drunk alone at home could believably be written off as a practical study for his Spirits and Beers course.

Probably not.

The thing about living alone, however, was that there were very few—if any—people you to whom you had to justify that sort of behavior. 

Eames was just setting about finding the whiskey stones he knew were _somewhere_ in the freezer of the smaller kitchen when his phone rang, displaying Ariadne's name and photograph on the screen. He answered the call before it went to voicemail, punctuating his hello with a small noise of triumph as he located the small black velvet pouch tucked behind the Ziploc bag that contained the frozen cores to a half-dozen water bottles he often forgot he owned. 

"Hey," was the response. "What are you up to?"

Eames made a sheepish sort of face, though she couldn't see it. "Preparing to drink one of the few bottles of liquor in this house that doesn't cost more than a months' rent in most of the places I've lived over the last decade." Niko had told him more than once that he was free to drink anything that wasn't in the furthest section of the liquor cabinet—which housed bottles Eames could never in a million years hope to replace on his own, either due to rarity or simply cost—but Eames couldn't, in good conscience, touch the vast majority of his friend's collection without a very good reason for celebration or an utterly justified, world-ending level of desperation. As this was neither, Eames was content to settle for one of the handful of bottles he'd purchased for himself since moving in back in July, all of which had price tags that didn't make him giggle nervously when he thought about having to replace an empty one. "You?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing at all?"

Ariadne snorted. "I guess technically I'm pretending to study?"

"What do you mean, 'technically'?" Eames asked as he headed back to the other room to snag a rocks glass from the shelf next to the liquor, black pouch in hand. He'd really done this inefficiently, not bringing the glass into the kitchen in the first place.

"Well, what I'm actually doing is hiding in my room from my roommate and the obnoxious people she brought with her who have taken over the living room and kitchen."

"If you want to avoid them, come over here. I'll even come pick you up, if you like. I was only planning on having a drink—I haven't actually had one yet."

"You don't have to pick me up. I used the bit of money I had been trying to save for the trip to Saito's vineyard to buy my cousin's old car."

"Ah, yes, you'd mentioned something about that plan last month at the mall, sorry. Still. Come on over. I've been to your place, but you've never come to mine."

Ariadne was quiet for a moment, and Eames waited for her excuse. She sounded empty and perhaps even lonelier than he felt this evening, but if she didn't want to deal with people, Eames wouldn't push her further. He had whiskey to keep him company, at the very least. "Text me the address?" she asked finally. "I'll change out of my PJs and head out in a couple minutes."

Eames chuckled. "Don't get dressed up on my account, love." 

"Will Arthur be over, too? We haven't done the all-three-of-us thing in a while."

"No," Eames said, trying not to let disappointment creep into his voice. "He's busy again. I don't even know if I'll hear from him tonight."

He'd seen Arthur outside of anything related to school a mere four times since their not-quite-argument at Arthur's flat three weeks earlier. Two of those times had been catching a meal together—once at Arthur's, once out in public—before separating for their respective homes and beds. The next time had been when Arthur had come over to bring Eames something he'd picked up at some gourmet specialty shop he'd been to earlier that day, and they'd done nothing more than watch a bit of television and (accidentally) nap together on the couch. Only once had they spent the night together, curling close in Arthur's bed in a way that almost felt like the odd rift between them had never happened. Eames had lain awake a long time that night with Arthur's head on his shoulder and Arthur's hand resting on his chest, and thought about how much he had missed this closeness between them—and how he really had to have been stupid to think Arthur would do what Eames had been afraid of. Arthur wasn't that sort. He was still being a bit cagey about his activities, but he'd been more careful about not letting Eames see quite so many suspicious behaviors, and at least he now would acknowledge that a missed call or handful of text messages were a part of whatever it was that he wasn't letting Eames in on. There was a sort of bluntness about the admissions, an air of dismissiveness along with them—and _that_ was so much more like the distant, reserved Arthur Eames had known all along that it was comforting. In his worst moments, he still heard the little voice saying perhaps Arthur was guilty and had only got better at hiding it, but it was easier to silence the voice now, especially when Arthur would do something small and sweet, like bring him something to share, or text him from the store or his internship, asking about his opinions on a particular food or dessert.

He did wish, however, that they were close enough that Arthur felt he could share more of what was going on in his life, instead of hiding it from Eames. But Arthur was, Eames knew, a fairly private, guarded person, and incredibly self-reliant. Even if Eames had found himself falling a bit harder than he usually did—and for someone not at all like his usual type—he couldn't expect Arthur to change too much, nor to reciprocate that intensity of feeling when it might simply not be in his nature or ability to do so. 

And Eames would have to live with that—was _willing_ to live with that, in fact, because being with Arthur was worth it enough to wait and see how far things might eventually go. If Eames _hadn't_ felt Arthur worth the investment in time and emotional energy, he'd not have got nearly as worked up about the theoretical infidelity. Eames wasn't the sort to expect exclusivity in a relationship unless it was addressed, happier to keep things casual and as another way to simply relax and have something fun and new to experience—but he _had_ had a handful of longer, more serious relationships over the years. And he had been cheated on before. It always stung, yes, but most of those relationships had been casual enough to not cause more than a short bit of mild heartache. With Arthur, exclusivity had been something Eames intrinsically understood from the very beginning, confirmed for a fact the morning after they'd kissed for the first time. The beginning of their relationship had seemed like such a potential marker, a notable event that would always stick out on the timeline of Eames's life, and that was part of why he'd been so affected when things started to pile up in a way that suggested Arthur was something that was being taken from him so soon.

"Oh, right, he's at the bakery for the thing tonight," Ariadne said, her voice muffled for a moment before it became clear again, snapping Eames out of his thoughts. "I forgot. Okay. I've got real, out-in-public clothes on like an actual adult and everything now, so I'll head out in just a minute. Want me to bring anything?"

"Just your sparkling personality."

Ariadne laughed. "Yeah, right. I don't think 'sparkling' is the word, Eames. Text me the info I need, and I'll be on my way, okay?"

"I'll see you soon." He hung up and immediately sent Niko's address along with this week's guest gate code so she could skip the security hassle. He got back a thumbs-up emoji and went to gather up his things from where he'd spread them in the living room when he'd arrived home an hour earlier, putting his glass and the whiskey stones back in their places, his plans for a drink postponed if not abandoned for the evening in favor of some much-needed company.

"I'm pretty sure I'm killing the property value of this entire neighborhood just by parking my car out in the driveway," Ariadne said as soon as Eames opened the front door to let her in twenty minutes later. "Oh my God, I know you said your friend's place was big, but I didn't think you meant _this_ level of big. It's just you here?"

"Just me," Eames confirmed, gesturing to where she could hang her purse and jumper when she held them up in question. "With occasional visits from housekeepers and gardeners and the like." Not that he hadn't offered to pitch in on whatever maintenance needed to be done around the place when Niko floated the idea of Eames staying here while he was out of the country, even if the thought of some of the tasks—especially any of the garden and lawn upkeep—seemed like something he'd need thorough instruction in. But Niko had waved him off, finally breaking down later and giving Eames a list of things he _could_ do to assuage his guilt at not paying more than the paltry amount that was really more token and technicality than anything else—including making sure the kitchens and all their equipment were well-taken care of. "Would you like the grand tour?"

"Fuck yeah, I would," Ariadne said, eyes still wide as she looked up at the high ceilings and chandelier above them. "I'm never going to get to walk around a place like this again. Might as well see it all, right?"

Eames chuckled. "After me, then."

He led her up the grand staircase, pointing out the guest rooms and bathroom, the office that Eames had probably been in less frequently than the housekeeper had, the master bedroom that belonged, of course, to Niko, and then let her into his own room—the largest of the guest rooms, and the only one besides the master with an en-suite bathroom, complete with a ludicrously large-sized tub that allowed even someone of Eames's size to soak up to his neck with his legs fully outstretched, with quite a bit of room to spare. Ariadne muttered something about it being more like a small pool than a bathtub before sitting on the corner of Eames's bed and looking around at the personal items he had here and there, little touches of his own personality and preferences. 

"Your room's not quite what I expected. I mean, it's definitely nice. But I'd love to see what your room would look like if you had your own place and could decorate however you wanted. I get the feeling there'd be more color. A lot more. And patterns." She gestured at the Manchester United pennant hung above the dresser, a red felt long pentagram with embroidery work in the crest and club name, supported by a gold bar at top and accented by gold fringe on the bottom edges ending at the point. "Though _that_ doesn't surprise me at all." She bounced against the mattress, using the momentum to propel her into a standing position, then grinned. "I'm sure you and Arthur had a lot of fun at this point of the tour. Or did you leave this for the grand finale, instead?"

Eames shook his head, somewhat amused by her casual sort of frankness. He quite liked that about her, the familiarity she shared with friends. He'd enjoyed it from the start, and sometimes wondered how it hadn't immediately repelled Arthur, who'd developed a friendship with her nearly as early as Eames had. "Arthur didn't even see the upstairs until the third time he was over." At Ariadne's incredulous look, he shrugged. "He was really more interested in just using the kitchen and getting some work done on his project. We weren't really an item the first time he was over."

Well, they hadn't been when Arthur'd stepped inside for the first time. They more or less had been by the time he'd left that evening. Actually, Arthur had escalated that fairly bloody quickly, like a switch had been flipped somewhere, and it was the first real moment that Eames had seen just how solidly Arthur was able to commit himself to a new course of action or a role once he'd made a conscious decision to. Arthur was not really one to be timid, and Eames had learned that very well that afternoon, though he'd already been somewhat aware of the trait in a general sense. There was a sort of arrogance to Arthur, both tempered and heightened by other bits of his personality, and it lent an aura of confidence Eames found alluring (and, early in their acquaintanceship, also a bit frustrating). It was part of what made Arthur seem so solid, so substantial.

"Yeah, okay, that sounds about right," Ariadne said, rolling her eyes. "So, show me the rest of the place?"

Eames walked her through everything else, unable to keep from teasing when she got a good look at the larger of the two kitchens and made a comment about how she could just live in here, with a cot in the walk-in pantry. They concluded the tour in the living room where Eames spent most of his time aside from the kitchen and his bedroom, settling in on the main sofa. When she spotted the deck of playing cards stacked on the corner of the coffee table, left there after a few hands of solitaire two nights ago, she raised her eyebrows. "Any chance you know poker well enough to teach me how to play?"

"What did you want to learn? Traditional five-card draw, or seven-card stud? Texas Hold 'Em? Or were you wanting something more interesting?"

"The first one, sure," Ariadne said, grinning a little. "Whatever. I've never played any card games, actually. Are you any good?"

Eames laughed. He'd picked up a handful of different card games as a child and only improved his skills as he grew older. "I paid my first semester's tuition bill with more money I'd won from card games than I should be willing to admit, love. Yes, I can teach you at least the basics of a version or two." He took the cards from their place and began to shuffle them. "Open that drawer there, under the lamp, and pull out the old-looking box of chips." Niko had his own sets of cards and chips in the game room elsewhere on the floor, as well as a custom table for playing, but Eames saw no reason to move from their spot to replace his well-worn possessions with Niko's nearly pristine versions. Eames rarely went into the game room, anyhow. That was mostly because he didn't often have anyone over who would be interested in playing against him—Yusuf had long ago stopped being willing to play for anything other than fun, and even that was rare, and Eames hadn't seen many of his other friends that often since beginning culinary school, as most of them worked schedules opposite his—and also because sometimes the feel of the felt under his hands made Eames think about spending an evening gambling somewhere with actual stakes. And while he had spare funds set aside for things that weren't related to school or general living, and it was true that he at least broke even more often than not on nights he gave in to the urge, he felt it was a better idea to spend the money on other things, these days. Besides, most times he went out for a game of cards, he had an eye to find someone to spend the evening with, or at least to find someone fun with whom to flirt for a few hours. And with Arthur in his life, that drive had gone away, replaced by the desire to spend time with someone he legitimately cared for.

He brushed that train of thought aside and focused on the feel of the cards in his hands, the soothing, heavy flutter as they overlapped so he could slide them together only to divide them and repeat the process over again. "Okay. First, some vocabulary. Then rules, then we try a few hands just for fun. I can point out strategy as we go, when you're comfortable with the bare bones of the game. Sound good?"

Ariadne nodded. "Sounds good."

Eames had to give it to her—she was a very quick study. There were times he could see quick calculations going on behind her eyes, brow furrowed in concentration, and something about it reminded him a little of Arthur. It wasn't exactly the expression that was the same—Eames logged those as a matter of habit, little subtleties of the way someone would hold certain muscles, or the nuances of a quirked mouth or narrowed eyes or tightened jaw; he used those details both when he went out for a night of flirting and fun, taking on whichever persona suited best for the occasion, and in impressions, though he had set a rule years ago to never, ever mimic someone's traits to their face; it rarely was taken well, even if done in fun or on request, and was one of the quickest ways to cut at someone, if done in anger—but something about the way they both worked with logic and the facts of the world, and shifted their attack or path based on new or recalled information. Ariadne used the talent very differently than Arthur did, but perhaps it was that shared mental framework that drew or kept them together as friends. 

"Right," Eames said after several hands. "What do you say to taking a bit of a break and finding something to eat? If you'd like a drink, I'm certain we can find something for you, if you don't want to partake of the whiskey I'll be having."

Ariadne made a face. "I'll try a sip of your drink, if you don't mind, but I don't think I'm really the kind of girl who can just drink it straight. I guess I won't know until I try. But do you have any Coke, just in case?"

Eames stood, smirking at just the thought of the look Niko would have made at that request. He bought the good stuff, the sort which never touched more than a few drops of a high-quality distilled water and was _certainly_ not for mixing. Eames, however, had at least half a bottle of stuff he'd purchased specifically to make mixed drinks with, the most affordable-yet-still-palatable option he'd been able to find a few months back, sitting next to some of his own somewhat-higher-quality selections. "I think there's a can or two in the fridge. Tell you what—I'll go hunt that down and maybe drum up something for us to snack on, and you find something for us to watch or listen to while we play a bit more and eat. Deal?"

"Yeah, definitely."

"Good." Eames showed her the remote and gave the few instructions that wouldn't be apparent from the displays on both remote control and television, then headed into the small kitchen to find both the soda and something to keep the alcohol from hitting empty stomachs. He eventually settled on one of the frozen items he'd picked up on a whim a few weeks back—a bit of spinach and artichoke cheese dip baked inside a ring of crusty bread, sprinkled with shredded asiago and parmesan, complete with a little bowl of prepared marinara for dipping—and set the oven to preheat while he went about getting drinks together.

"Your phone's been buzzing," Ariadne said as soon as he returned to the living room, whiskey stones and bottle of cola in hand. "And I couldn't figure out what to put on, so I defaulted to _Firefly_."

"I've never actually seen that," Eames said, laughing when she gave him a shocked, nearly horrified face in response. "But I've heard good things, and I have no objections to an episode or two tonight to fix that."

"Good. Settled. Done," Ariadne said from her spot sitting cross-legged on the carpet. "You teach me enough poker so I can play against my cousins the next time I go back to New York, and I'll introduce you to the very best of space westerns and the awesomeness that is Captain Malcolm Reynolds and crew." She took a very small, cautious sip of the drink from his glass when he held it out to her, scrunching her face as she swallowed. "Yeah, okay, no, that just tastes like burning."

"Then whiskey and cola it is." He poured her a drink, waiting to see if it was met with more approval than his own had been, then sat down on the sofa and reached for his phone. There were two text messages, both from Arthur. Eames hesitated, then put the phone back face-down on the coffee table without reading them. He could get to those when he got up to put the food in the oven in a few minutes.

When he returned from the kitchen for a third time with said food, however, Ariadne just pointed to the phone lying on the floor, slightly underneath the coffee table. He'd apparently left it on the arm of the sofa, having forgot completely about the messages he'd meant to check when he'd heard the oven chime, and managed to knock it over at some point, not even thinking about it once it was out of sight. "I think someone actually tried calling, this time. Took me a minute to even figure out what the noise was and where it was coming from, or I'd have yelled to you while it was ringing."

Eames fished it out from its hiding place and pressed the button to show all notifications. There were now a total of five text messages, one missed call, and one voicemail, all from Arthur. He opened his messages and read them, feeling a twinge of guilt. 

_Hey, are you home tonight?_

_I think I may have left my notebook for Chocolate & Sugar Work at your place. Have you seen it?_

_If you find it, could you let me know? I really need something in there for my internship tomorrow morning._

_It should have been in my bag, but I've checked twice. I was hoping to have it tonight, since I'm here at the bakery, but I need to have that info by tomorrow, if possible._

_If you're home, I could just swing by and pick it up after I leave the bakery._

The voicemail capped the whole string of messages off, and Eames actually winced a little as he listened to Arthur's voice, which so plainly evidenced his frustration: "Hey, sorry, I know I'm probably bothering you in the middle of something, but I can't find one of my notebooks—the green one I use for one of my classes and some other stuff. I know it's not at home, and it's not in my bag like I thought. I guess I'm just hoping you've seen it somewhere. I've never actually lost something like this, and I'm kind of pissed at myself for it. If you find it, just send me a text or something so I can stop worrying about it, I guess. I'm about to head home. I'll see you in class. Have a good night, Eames. And again, I'm sorry to bother you."

"Everything all right?" Ariadne asked, once Eames had hung up. 

Eames nodded. "Yes, it's fine. Excuse me for just a moment." He hurried out of the living room and up to his bedroom. He knew which notebook Arthur meant—he'd seen it enough times to know exactly what he was looking for. After a bit of shuffling through things on his dresser and then on his nightstand, Eames had a flash of memory and went for his own school bag, finding the missing notebook underneath his own texts. He and Arthur had set their belongings near each other in the corridor the other night, and Eames appeared to have picked up Arthur's notebook along with his own things as they parted ways. He sent Arthur a quick text saying he'd located the missing item and would leave it on the small table just inside the front door, and that said door would be unlocked for the next hour or two to facilitate him popping in to retrieve it before continuing home for bed. He hoped Arthur got the message before making it all the way home. But at the very least, he'd know he hadn't actually lost anything, and that should help his peace of mind. Arthur had sounded utterly exhausted and almost beaten, and Eames very distantly considered making the trip to Arthur's at some stupidly early hour of the morning to return the notebook, if Arthur proved unable to pick it up this evening. 

The sound of the front door closing carried into the living room perhaps thirty minutes later, and Eames was surprised to hear Arthur's footsteps just before he appeared in the doorway to the living room, having expected him to step no more into the house than was physically necessary to retrieve his notebook before stepping right back out. "Thank you," Arthur said, holding up the notebook now clutched in his hand. "I really appreciate it."

"Sorry I didn't get back to you sooner. I was—"

He was interrupted by Ariadne's reappearance on her way back from the bathroom. "Arthur! Hey!" She reached out and gave Arthur a quick, enthusiastic squeeze, appearing to startle him. "Are you staying and hanging out with us for a while?"

Eames could see the hesitation in Arthur's response, the way his face cycled through several different expressions of emotion at the question. He was just about to open his mouth to make Arthur's excuse for him—he frankly looked awful and in need of sleep he should have already been catching, and Eames knew he had to be up again for his regular shift at his internship before dawn—but Arthur answered instead: "Yeah. I am."

"Oh, awesome, Come sit here and help me beat Eames at cards," she said, moving past them both to settle back in her spot on the floor. "He's letting me win some of these hands, but I could definitely use some assistance here."

Arthur snorted. "Ariadne, from what I've gathered, there's no way I'm ever beating Eames at cards. Pool, I can win at. Cards, not so much."

"You don't have to..." Eames murmured as Arthur stepped close to move around to the other side of the sofa, but Arthur shrugged. "Seriously, you can beg off and go home to get some sleep. No one will be offended if you choose sleep over socializing."

Arthur shook his head and offered a small, wistful smile, slipping off his shoes and setting his bag and notebook down in the corner next to them. "Eames, if I opted for sleep whenever I was kind of tired instead of doing anything else, I wouldn't see either of you guys at all this semester." He dropped heavily onto the couch near where Ariadne was sitting on the floor. "Deal me in? Or I can try to give you the few pointers I know, even though I'm sure Eames has given them already."

Ariadne reached for the cards and began to shuffle them. "I'll deal you in. I've got to practice all of this if I don't want to lose my shirt when I go to New York over the summer." She paused. "Wait. Metaphorical shirt. We are _not_ that kind of family."

"No strip poker with your cousins?" Eames asked innocently, earning a snort from Arthur.

Ariadne glared at him. "Arthur, do me a favor and smack him on the back of the head for me. And let him know that more cracks like that will mean I don't even bother bringing back anything from the Greek bakery I'll be spending two weeks practically living at."

Arthur dutifully brought up a hand as if he were going to deliver the hit, pulling his punch at the last moment to lightly graze the back of Eames's head instead before just barely running his fingertips through the hair at the base of his skull and pulling away quickly, as if he'd caught himself doing something he shouldn't. "Look at his face, Ariadne. I think he got the message about the pastries."

"That I did, love," Eames said, still feeling the ghost of Arthur's touch on the back of his neck. "Now. Let's see exactly what you've learned so far tonight. Deal." He leaned forward, watching her hands deal the cards precisely, if a bit slowly, and glanced for just a second at Arthur, who was also watching Ariadne's count. Perhaps Arthur felt Eames's eyes on him, because he flicked his own eyes over to meet Eames's gaze, giving him a faint, tired smile.

Eames smiled back, though Arthur had already turned his attention back to the cards being dealt onto the coffee table. Something about that smile had been surprisingly intimate and it made Eames's chest ache for reasons he couldn't quite name. He just knew he was happy to have Arthur here, even for a brief visit. Because the more Eames saw him these days, the better he felt about _them_. It was almost as if things were back to the way they should be. Not entirely, no. Not yet.

But it was getting there.


	29. Chapter 29

Despite knowing that he really did need to get some sleep, Arthur found it hard to turn around and leave once Ariadne asked if he was planning on staying to hang out with her and Eames. He was already here, for one thing. And he really hadn't seen them both at the same time outside of their shared classes in weeks. He missed it. Yeah, he'd be paying for it tomorrow, that was a given, but he didn't regret his answer once he gave it, even when Eames laid a hand on his arm and quietly told him it would be understood and excused if he changed his mind, apparently trying to give him the easy out Arthur didn't want. His _body_ said sleep, yeah, but everything else said this was the correct choice.

At some point, Ariadne decided she was well-versed enough in the rules of poker to call it quits on the game, and Arthur privately said a little bit of thanks to the universe for her decision. He wasn't going to win any large, high-stakes poker games on a good day, necessarily, but his brain was so shot after a long day of morning internship work, classes, and the evening's hours-long bakery inventory, that he kept finding himself making dumb mistakes. It allowed Ariadne to outplay him a handful of times, when Eames had gotten up to take away the leftover food after the three of them were done picking at it before turning the TV off in favor of playing music. 

"Hey, I know this one!" Ariadne exclaimed as one song faded out and another took its place. "This is that band both you and Arthur like. The Ramones, right?"

Eames shot Arthur a wide grin. He'd been in a somewhat better mood this evening, or was at least better at faking a lack of tension when he was here, in his own territory. Either way, Arthur liked to see it. It felt almost natural and relaxed again, and Arthur craved that return to their own version of normal. "See? I told you we could teach her about quality music, if we tried."

"It's only taken us several months. And it's only one band—granted, one of the best. But we'll be in our nineties by the time she's got the classics down at this rate. And just think of how many more awful songs and bands we'll have to steer her away from by then," Arthur said with a scoff, earning himself a hit on the shoulder from Ariadne as she walked behind him with a fresh glass of ice water in hand. He supposed he should count himself lucky she hadn't cheerfully dumped it on him, though he probably owed that to the fact that they were in Eames's friend's place and he was sitting on a probably-expensive couch, more than anything else. "Hey, you can protest when you _don't_ have an iPod that contains music by Avril Lavigne or Drake." He smirked when she grumbled something back at him. "Yeah, uh-huh. Now come sit and listen." He scooted closer to the arm of the couch, pretending he hadn't seen how Eames had shifted to accommodate Arthur moving into him, and made room for Ariadne to sit between them instead.

Ariadne obliged, plopping down into the vacated spot and leaning up against Eames's arm before throwing her legs across Arthur's lap, letting her feet hang off the couch. "You know what? It might sound pathetic, but this is totally what I've been needing."

"To use two grown men as furniture?" Arthur asked with a yawn. Sleep was getting harder to fight now that he'd eaten something and was sitting somewhere comfortable. He'd be most comfortable in bed or, failing that, up against Eames with his own weight supported by a solid shoulder and a warm hand tucked around him, but this wasn't exactly going to keep him awake much longer, either. 

"No. Time with the two of you. You guys always make me laugh and feel better. And it's nice to remember that being dumped might suck and all—even if it seems like I dodged a bullet in my particular case—but that it's also totally possible to find my complement, like you guys have." She stretched, unintentionally digging her calves into Arthur's thighs. "Love isn't total bullshit after all. You guys are pretty obvious indicators of that, and it's great to have that reminder."

Arthur winced, more from her words than from the pressure against his legs as she moved again to get comfortable. He'd been trying lately to tone down any sort of couple-y behaviors around her, not wanting to shove their relationship in her face after hers had ended so abruptly. In hindsight, he supposed that had made him a little distant, from both Eames _and_ Ariadne. He couldn't help but feel guilty, especially now that he knew she hadn't felt the way he'd assumed she would. 

Because she was _right_ , was the thing. Arthur could feel it in his chest, an extra bit of weight to his heartbeat for a few seconds, underscoring the impact of her words. They hadn't had the chance for this sort of thing lately, with their varying internship schedules on top of full course loads, and Arthur had missed it. He'd almost forgotten how easy it could be with the three of them together, how both Eames and Ariadne were generally so willing to accept him and overlook his quirks and faults that most people bristled against. They took him as he was, comfortable enough to call him out on his crap when he needed it, and it was nice to have friends who good-naturedly gave him shit that he could give right back and still have everything be comfortable. And that only intensified the guilt, made him want to do better by both of them.

Eames, on the other hand, didn't look like he felt guilty at all. In fact, a glance at his face to see if he'd noticed Arthur's flinch made Arthur take a longer, concerned look. Eames looked, frankly, like someone had just kicked him in the stomach. Arthur wondered if he was thinking about her comments regarding their apparently-obvious affection pitted against his own prior worries about what Arthur's secretive behavior had been about. For a moment, Arthur thought Eames actually looked like he might be sick, and he opened his mouth to say something about how it might be time to call it a night. But then Eames looked up and caught Arthur's gaze, and there was something so honestly regretful in his expression that the words died on Arthur's tongue. By the time he thought to say something again, Eames's face had smoothed out and he was making some light-hearted joke Arthur heard but didn't really process, as if everything was back to normal—just as it had been months ago with all three of them so casual and easy with each other. But there was now a sudden, underlying tension Arthur couldn't shake the feel of, lines of it running between him and Eames with Ariadne apparently oblivious to its existence. And it stayed for the next hour, through music and conversation, until Ariadne finally stood and said her goodbyes for the evening.

It was still there after she'd left, letting herself out and leaving Arthur and Eames alone in the living room. It only seemed to grow stronger as Arthur prepared himself to make his own exit, movements slow from exhaustion and cautiousness, trying not to trip over the taut wires of whatever was strung between them anew. "I should get going, too," he said, finally standing up from his place on the couch and cracking his neck. "I have to be up in about four hours." He walked over to the corner with his things as Eames also stood, moving out from between the coffee table and the couch. "Thanks for letting me hang out. I'll see you in class. I might need you to hit me if I fall asleep during the lecture, though." He leaned one hand against the wall for support as he slipped on his shoes. Yeah, he was definitely feeling the sleep deprivation. Tomorrow was going to be rough. He might need to be extra careful around anything sharp or hot. 

"Arthur."

"Hm?" Arthur looked up from where he'd been watching his feet, needing the extra sensory input to make sure he got his shoes on correctly, and met Eames's eyes as Eames stood beside him, close enough that he'd only had to murmur Arthur's name to be heard.

"Don't go."

Arthur hesitated. The look Eames was giving him was open and vulnerable in a way Arthur hadn't seen from him before, and it made leaving the last thing Arthur really wanted to do. But he had to be at work early, and he'd already been over longer than he should have. 

Eames moved closer. "If it's logistics you're worried about, you can shower here, borrow some clean clothes, whatever you need. I don't mind your alarm clock going off before sunrise." He leaned in, raising one hand to Arthur's face and cupping his jaw to guide them closer, and kissed Arthur softly. His mouth was warm and tasted faintly of whiskey, and Arthur felt his eyes flutter shut as Eames slid his tongue lightly over Arthur's bottom lip before drawing back. "Just. Stay."

The last word was little more than a breath, but there was so much loaded into it that Arthur couldn't say no. "Yeah," he breathed. "Okay. I'll stay." He pressed forward, kissing Eames back until he felt those lines of tension drop away, replaced by something warm and soft that seemed to curl around the both of them, weaving throughout their shared space and binding them gently together. 

He'd missed this, too.

He was already half-asleep not five minutes later, his eyes unwilling to stay open as Eames slid under the covers and settled in, tucking one arm around him as Arthur scooted close, pressing his face into the warm skin of Eames's chest and shoulder and inhaling deeply. There was no cologne to appreciate, just the scent that was all Eames, intimately familiar and comforting, relaxing Arthur even further. He hummed his contentment, then went totally limp with a small, soft moan that was completely involuntary when Eames ran one hand through Arthur's hair, massaging lightly with his fingertips. "Oh, fuck," he slurred, not even sure if the words were intelligible, and definitely not caring, in any case.

He expected Eames to make some sort of joke—about leaving that for another night when Arthur would be more coherent, or something like it—if he'd understood what Arthur had even said in the first place. Instead, Arthur felt Eames's nose rub gently against his temple and a soft, open sort of kiss brushed against the same spot before Eames tucked Arthur closer. "Thank you. For staying," he murmured instead against the side of Arthur's head. 

It hit Arthur that the earlier request for him to stay might have been more than just asking him to stay the night, may have been something about their relationship in general. He was too groggy to articulate any sort of meaningful question about it right now—and really, he reasoned, it didn't matter, since he wouldn't have changed his answer any, had he realized any additional layer of meaning at the time. "Happy to be here," Arthur mumbled instead, trying to come up with something significantly meaningful and failing. At least, he thought he'd failed, until he both heard and felt Eames's long, slightly-shuddery exhale and subtly-tightened embrace. He rubbed his thumb against Eames's ribs, just about all the movement he could muster this close to sleep. "Really."

Eames didn't respond right away—or at least Arthur didn't process it as right away, though his perception of time was admittedly faulty at the moment. When he did, it was with a simple, murmured "Sweet dreams, Arthur. Get some rest." And it sounded so much like the warm, affectionate Eames Arthur had somehow fallen for, the one he'd known all along, that Arthur fell asleep between one breath and the next, feeling a small smile creep across his face as he drifted off, more relaxed than he'd felt in weeks.


	30. Chapter 30

It felt odd to Eames to have a weekend off from working at Exquis, and odder still to realize that, his internship hours now completed for the semester, he'd quite possibly never set foot in that kitchen again. He'd been told that he'd be welcome back for another round of interning if he so chose next semester, and he had the head chef's personal encouragement to apply to the restaurant for an actual position in the kitchen the moment he was finished with his schooling, but Eames didn't feel like pinning his hopes on that. He still had another two terms of school left, another two internships open to him, and he thought he might do himself the most service trying something new each time. It was how he lived his life in general, moving on if not up, and it had served him well enough so far.

That wasn't to say he wouldn't keep it in the back of his mind as an option. But he certainly wasn't going to limit himself in that way, either.

This Saturday morning found him in lower spirits than might be expected, given the sudden room in his daily schedule. The lower spirits, however, were somewhat tied to the fact that there _was_ room in his schedule. Ariadne had cornered him before World Cuisine two weeks prior, asking him to keep this afternoon and possibly evening free to hang out together. Eames had readily agreed, figuring he might get Arthur alone to himself for the morning before going out, and only been told last night that his hope was unfortunately impossible. Arthur had claimed a previous appointment had been made for this morning, one that would be logistically unsound for Eames to accompany him to. 

"But my evening's free," Arthur had hurried to tell him when Eames hadn't bothered to keep the disappointment off his face. "And I don't have anywhere to be Sunday, so we can spend the night together if you want." It was a reasonable proposal, and Eames wasn't going to say no. Ariadne had made it sound as if they'd mostly be occupied for the day, and Eames was certain she wouldn't begrudge him a bit of time with Arthur at night, especially as it would remain rare for another week, until Arthur's own internship concluded. 

Eames lounged on the sofa with a cup of Earl Grey, a football documentary playing on the television, waiting for Ariadne to arrive at the agreed-upon hour. He'd offered to meet her wherever it was she'd wanted to go, but she'd been insistent upon coming to pick him up. Now that she had her own vehicle, she seemed to be enjoying the extra freedoms it afforded her. And, truth be told, Eames really didn't have much against not having to deal with the headache of driving around Los Angeles, and the worse headache of parking. 

"So, anywhere in particular you want to go this morning?" Ariadne asked as Eames fastened himself in to her passenger's seat a few minutes after nine-thirty.

"No," Eames said with a shake of his head. "I'm open to wherever your whims take us. I assume you have somewhere in mind?"

Ariadne shrugged in a way that was likely supposed to be casual, but came off as a bit too forced for that. "Oh, I don't know." When he just raised his eyebrows at her, she laughed a little. "Okay, fine. My aunt and uncle just visited my parents for a few days, so I've got some early birthday money from them. I have strict instructions from my aunt that I should use at least a little part of it for something fun to wear. So I need an opinion on a dress or some shoes or a cute top or whatever the hell _isn't_ a damned chef's coat and the accompanying pants. Also, Alan—this guy in my wines class—recommended some foodie-friendly shops I hadn't heard of, so I'm kind of looking for company that won't be bored as hell in some culinary-related store. Someone to keep me from spending a million dollars in a place like that, who will smack me if I'm going to dump a ton of money into something stupid. You up for it?"

Eames laughed. "Always. Though I'm not entirely positive your logic is sound, in thinking I might be a great discouragement to spending in any sort of shop like you may be thinking of. It may be a sort of mutual accountability situation, honestly."

"You're right. Arthur's really more that type, isn't he?" She snorted. "Fine. Then we can enable each other—and figure out how to cover for each other, if he asks any questions later."

"Deal."

Any disappointment Eames had at not having had a morning together with Arthur was very quickly overshadowed by the enjoyment of accompanying Ariadne along instead. The time passed quickly, filled with snarky remarks made about some of the spring fashions that were very much not Ariadne's style as she tried to select something she thought her aunt might deem acceptably "fun," along with a dose of people-watching when they parked near a little boutique that dealt exclusively in oils and vinegars that happened to have them walking along a street parallel to a beach down south. Eames looked away from the crowds of people along the water to see Ariadne grinning at him. "Wanna ditch our shoes and go hang out on one of those for a while before we hit the olive oil place?" she asked, pointing to a row of unoccupied metal benches out in the sand, just past The Strand. "It's been forever since I've been to the beach."

Eames didn't have to be prodded at all to accept that offer.

It was nice to walk down to ocean level and sit, socks and trainers tucked at his side on the bench, letting the sensations of the beach wash over him as he observed the other people around them. The topmost layer of sand was pleasantly warm from the sun, a cooler layer just below that, noticeable when he dug his toes in as he stretched. The air had that fresh salt tang that was such a key part of the experience, and Eames breathed in deeply when the breeze picked up, smiling softly when Ariadne tied her hair back to keep it from hitting her repeatedly in the face. He used to do this sort of thing more often, before this semester, when school and his internship had taken up so many of his hours. He'd have to allow himself a bit of a break in his schedule for this sort of thing, moving forward, he thought as he watched a small group of people in wetsuits wade out into the water with their boards. Beside him, Ariadne leaned back against the bench, her head tipped up towards the sun, eyes closed and face peaceful. Eames thought of the night he and Arthur had spent on the pier in Santa Monica, standing close and staring out over the dark water, watching the waves lick at the wooden pillars supporting the walkways, and the way Arthur had also seemed so relaxed, so much more open; Eames felt a wistful little twist in his chest at the memory. He _definitely_ needed to do this more often. It was good for the soul. 

It was after two when they started making their way back towards Los Angeles, both of their wallets a little lighter than they had been at the start. Eames had, in fact, talked Ariadne out of a handful of impulse purchases—an automatic yogurt maker amongst them—and managed to remain moderately responsible himself. Arthur ought to be proud of them both, really. Eames would have to tell him about their restraint when they saw each other this evening. At the thought, Eames checked his phone. There were no messages from Arthur or anyone else. While that wasn't a surprise, as he knew Arthur had some sort of appointment that was supposed to keep him occupied for most of the day, he still felt just the slightest bit disappointed. Things had been good between them again for the last two weeks, even if Arthur had seemed significantly tense the last two days, something he dismissed as being worried about his upcoming internship evaluation when Eames had asked. Perhaps Eames ought to leave Arthur a quick message about setting some more concrete plans for the evening. The thought became more pronounced when Eames felt his stomach give a small growl. If he wasn't going to see Arthur for another few hours at least, there should be no harm in grabbing a late lunch.

"I was thinking food might be in order at some point," Eames said as they drove down the one-ten at a crawl, traffic held up more than usual by the flashing red and blue lights just visible ahead. He sent a quick _What time do I get to see you tonight?_ to Arthur and slid his phone back into his pocket, hoping he'd hear back sometime soon.

Ariadne glanced at the time display on her radio and made a face. She'd been doing that for at least the last twenty minutes. "Yeah, I was actually thinking that's what we should do next. There's this little café Chef Fischer mentioned in office hours once, and it sounded like someplace to try. Blue Pig. Have you been?"

Eames shook his head. The name sounded only the slightest bit familiar, as if he'd heard of it once or twice, or perhaps driven by without really thinking about it, but he'd definitely never been. "I'm up for new experiences. What sort of food?"

Ariadne shrugged, eyes flicking towards the clock again. "Sort of a mix of cuisines, I think, some fusion. A little bit of something for everyone, from everywhere, from what I understand."

"Sounds like my kind of place."

The restaurant was small and unassuming from the outside, but the car park outside was full, enough so that Ariadne ended up parking two streets away. "Do you think there will be much of a wait?" Eames asked as they walked towards the front door. "Because I could stand a bit of waiting, if you're really eager to try this place, but I have no objections to coming back another day in favor of finding someplace where we might be served sooner."

Ariadne shook her head. "No, I'm sure we'll be fine." Eames wasn't so certain, but he shrugged and followed her up the steps, sliding inside just behind her. There was already a handful of people sitting inside the entryway, occupying the few small benches along the walls, and even a few standing off into the corners of the waiting area, and Eames was about to suggest they wait outside instead of standing around with everyone else in the very limited amount of room inside—only Ariadne didn't turn around with a wait time after giving the host their information. Instead, the host nodded, then gestured to a server, who beckoned for them to follow.

The tables they passed were indeed all full as they walked further into the dining room, and Eames figured they'd end up at some little table near the kitchen entrance where the occasional shouts of "corner!" would pepper whatever conversation he and Ariadne were holding. As their route took them to the very end of the dining room and continued around another corner where things were suddenly much quieter, Eames found himself thinking that he hadn't seen much in the way of patio seating, especially not on this side of the building, but that it would be nice to be sat somewhere where he could actually hear Ariadne talk while they enjoyed their meal. So when their server stopped at a set of closed-over French doors that didn't appear to lead outside and gestured to Ariadne before turning around and walking back the way he'd come, Eames blinked. 

"After you," Ariadne said, hand already on one of the doors and pulling it open. 

"You know, I really should be the one holding doors open for you, since..." Eames said as he stepped past her, words fading into nothing as he got a look at what the room held. He'd been expecting...well, he didn't know what, exactly. But whatever it was, he certainly _hadn't_ expected a room with a table large enough for more than twenty at one end and a long table brimming with food and drinks just to his right as he entered. It was enough of the unexpected that Eames took a moment to realize that the person standing closest to him inside the door was someone he knew. "Vincent?"

"Surprise," Ariadne murmured at Eames's side, pushing him a little further into the room with a hand on his back. As he opened his mouth to ask Ariadne about her comment, Vincent turned at his name, and Eames caught sight of someone else standing behind him, surprised to see Ashwin for the first time since Eames had left his position in the man's kitchen at Tamarind Bay nine months ago. As his brain put together the odds of seeing two friends who lived and worked in very different parts of town in the same restaurant, Eames looked around and saw that he knew every single face within the room, most of them former coworkers—and all of them someone he counted as a friend. No matter the occasion, it had to have taken a tremendous amount of work and planning to get them all in one place at the same time.

And there was only one person Eames knew who might even _remotely_ be capable of that sort of thing.

Before he could say anything, Eames found himself surrounded, friends calling out his name as they noticed his arrival, handshakes and hugs and slaps on the back being given at such a rate Eames felt nearly dizzy with it. Someone thrust a bottle of beer into his hand, and Eames was finally able to catch his breath, thanking Jacquie with a quick kiss on the cheek before doing a double-take. "I know you said you were having a baby, love," he said, unable to stop staring at the swollen belly of the woman who had shown him how to make the best crab bisque he'd had, to date, "but I didn't realize you were quite so far along."

Jacquie laughed. "Due in two weeks. So if my water breaks during your party, I apologize in advance." She took a sip from a bottle of sparkling juice. "So, five years in the US, huh? And what, two of them here in LA? Time flies."

"That it does," Eames agreed, suddenly realizing that's what the party was meant to celebrate. Five years spent in the States, bits of it in New York, Atlantic City, Chicago, Atlanta, Las Vegas, and here. How Arthur discovered the actual date, or had come up with a way to contact all of these people, Eames had no idea. But it was bloody impressive. The more he thought about the sheer effort that had to have gone into this, the more he began to feel overwhelmed. 

Because this, a gathering of his friends from around the city—and in at least one case, from another state, as Eames had just spied Emmanuel across the room, now chatting with Vincent—complete with what looked to be a fantastic selection of foods and desserts, _this_ was what Arthur had been doing in what seemed to be any free moment he'd had over the last two or three months. Eames knew it without question. 

Eames could never admit aloud that he might have been hiding the smallest of lingering doubts from Arthur, who had so obviously been trying to be better about spending time together. Because Ariadne was right, it was usually so obvious that he and Arthur worked well together, once they'd settled in and got comfortable, and Eames was going to spend the rest of his fucking _life_ trusting Arthur—anal-retentive, all-or-nothing, perfectionist Arthur—and showing him that he trusted him, and was equally committed to making their relationship work. Because Arthur may not be the sort to arrange a flash mob or hire a skywriter to publicly demonstrate to someone how much he cared for them, but this was, Eames felt, a grander, more meaningful expression of the same thing. It spoke volumes about not just Arthur, but about _them_.

It was another few minutes, all of them filled with enthusiastic greetings and conversation from friends, before Eames even spotted Arthur, off in a corner and talking intently with someone wearing a gold nametag—the only person in the room Eames didn't personally know, which meant he likely worked here. Eames waited until Arthur appeared to be finished, then stepped up close behind him. "You know," Eames murmured, making Arthur jump, "now I'm _incredibly_ curious what it is, exactly, you did before enrolling at Pacifica." He wrapped his arms around Arthur from behind. "Because I think 'research' is possibly simplifying things quite a bit."

Arthur extracted himself from Eames's embrace, turning around to face him. "I've told you, I'm not actually able to discuss most of it without violating a ton of non-disclosure agreements and other legally-binding documents." He cracked a smile. "Also, surprise."

Eames laughed and leaned in for a kiss, aware that the slight tension on Arthur's end was solely a result of his general tendency not to be much for noticeable public displays of attention, evidenced by the way his eyes flicked around the room as Eames made his move, and not for any other reason. After only the briefest initial hesitation, Arthur met him in a kiss, close-mouthed and chaste. "So," Eames asked as Arthur pulled away. "Just how _did_ you get all twenty-something of these people here?"

"Twenty-eight, including you, me, and Ariadne," Arthur said, one side of his mouth raised in something like a smirk. "And I had help. Chef Yusuf, for one. He gave me a handful of names and numbers. Those guys gave me a few more. I went back to that pizza place on the pier and found Vinny, who knew a couple of others. And Ariadne may have Facebook-stalked you and some of your friends a little bit, to get a few more." Arthur paused. "I probably would have been able to find others, but I wasn't going to try to go through your phone."

"It's password protected, anyhow," Eames pointed out.

Arthur snorted. "Yeah. I know. With the year Newton Heath changed their name to Manchester United. But just because I know that doesn't mean I'm ever going to use the information."

Eames just stared. It was probably best not to ask how Arthur knew not only the four-digit password he used—which was possibly something as simple as having glanced over by chance when Eames had unlocked his phone at any point in the eight or nine months they'd both attended Pacifica—but also the significance of the number, since Eames knew perfectly well that Arthur didn't follow football at all. "Sometimes, you amaze me. Or terrify. I'm not exactly certain which one applies here."

Arthur smirked. "Whichever you prefer. Now would you go get yourself some food and enjoy the next couple of hours? You see me all the damned time. Go talk to the people who showed up to let you know they're happy to have met you."

"And what if I want to introduce you to said people? Show you off a bit?"

"I've already met everyone, technically." At Eames's pout, Arthur laughed a little. "Yeah, fine, I know what you mean. Let me check one more thing, and then I'll be back and you can embarrass me all you want. Just...go eat something, and get everyone else to, too."

As it turned out, Arthur had much less to worry about regarding being embarrassed than Eames did. Because, Eames quickly realized, having so many people who knew you—who had been with you on good days and bad, in moments of silliness and stress, at work and out for drinks or other fun outside of the kitchen—meant that they were likely to talk about the one thing (or, more specifically, the one person) they all had in common. And there were apparently a good number of stories his friends felt compelled to share with everyone else gathered today. 

Including, unfortunately, the one about the ice wand.

"Hey now, in my defense, I'd just come off a double the night before, and had only had two hours of sleep and a shower before coming back in to cover the prep cook," Eames said as everyone laughed. He pointed at Vincent. "And no more stories from you, mate, or I tell everyone about the PPX ticket incident."

The smirk slid right off Vincent's face. "Dude, no, okay. We don't have to resort to _that_. Besides, that was my best Eames story. I can't top that one."

"But I can," Jacquie sing-songed from her chair at the corner of the table. "And Eames doesn't have anything on me."

Eames groaned and buried his face in Arthur's shoulder. He already knew which story she was going to tell, and Arthur and Ariadne were _never_ going to let him live it down. "Alright, fine, get on with it. But someone fetch me another drink, first." He moved and reached for the bottle Yusuf handed him from his spot near the iced-down tub of beverage options, taking a moment to step back and survey everything as Jacquie began her little story. It was nice to have this, an afternoon with the friends who had been able to make time in their varied schedules from all over the city, at the request of someone they'd never met, and all on his behalf. Eames knew he was lucky to have friends like these, from those he saw regularly, to those he caught up with via Facebook or the occasional text or video message or phone call or even a quick pop-in at wherever they were working whenever a whim struck them.

And he was especially lucky to have someone who would go through the trouble of putting it all together for him, as a surprise.

Eames looked over at Arthur, who was sitting in a chair with Ariadne on one side and Brian, one of their classmates from Pacifica on the other, just past Eames's vacated chair. He was leaning forward, forearms braced on his thighs and hands dangling, clasped together, between his knees, and he was laughing at Jacquie's increasingly dramatic retelling. He looked more comfortable, more at ease than Eames had seen him in at least a couple of months, even surrounded by people who were nearly all strangers to him. He looked good sitting there, shining just a bit brighter somehow, so that everyone else slid just a fraction into the background. He stood out in a way Eames had always—from the very beginning, before they'd had anything resembling a friendly conversation—acknowledged, but not been able to define.

He looked...Eames didn't quite have words for the thought. Arthur just seemed so solid sitting there, so grounded, so _real_ \--like the sort of person who could hold you in place when needed, even if the whole world went to shit and turned upside down, leaving everything else weightless and directionless. Arthur had the ability to keep you tethered, guide you in a solid direction, until the world righted and you found your feet. Eames had never really had someone like that in his life. And now, as he picked his way back to his chair at Arthur's side, returning the distracted grin Arthur flashed him before resting one hand on Eames's knee and turning back to catch the climax of Jacquie's story...well, now he wondered just how he'd ever do without.


	31. Chapter 31

All in all, Arthur thought the party had gone relatively well. People showed up, the restaurant staff were efficient in setting up the event, everything was clean, and the food was good. Ariadne had got Eames there just after the planned-upon time, which actually allowed the couple of stragglers to sneak in beforehand. Those who hadn't been able to attend but wanted to send well-wishes had apparently honored Arthur's request to not mention anything until at least an hour after the party's designated start time, just to keep everything a surprise. Because even though Arthur had happened to be against the far wall—in a discussion with one of the managers about a few final details for the end of the event—when Ariadne and Eames had arrived, even he could see the look of genuine surprise on Eames's face when he'd stepped inside the room and seen what had been arranged—a look that had been quickly replaced by a large grin when the guy who worked at the pizza place in Santa Monica where Arthur and Eames had had their not-quite-first date had stepped up and given Eames a rough hug (complete with back-pounding) that Arthur's old coworker would have been proud of. 

So, yeah, he wasn't planning on dropping his culinary pursuits in favor of becoming a party planner or anything, but Arthur counted the whole endeavor as something of a success.

Which is why he was so confused by the way Eames was acting now, sitting in the passenger's seat of Arthur's car as they drove back to Eames's place.

Arthur glanced over again as they hit the next red light. Eames had been nearly silent since they got in the car ten minutes earlier. Though he'd been laughing and smiling at the party itself, boisterous and animated with his friends, there had been moments in the second half when Arthur would catch Eames looking at him strangely, like he was working out a problem. And now that they were alone, the behavior was even stranger. Even from his quick glance, Arthur could see the way Eames's jaw was slightly clenched and his hands were bunched into fists in his lap. 

Arthur ran through whatever possibilities he could find as they drove on, unable to come up with anything obvious that would cause Eames's anger or tension. The closest plausible thing he could come up with was that perhaps he'd overstepped his bounds, reaching out to so many people Eames knew. But Eames had seemed to more or less brush that off at the party's beginning, acting more amused than anything else in that regard.

Though...what if it wasn't the steps Arthur had taken in planning the party, but the fact that there had been a party at all? What if this wasn't anger at Arthur, specifically, but something like frustration at the situation, Eames perhaps being confronted with how much he missed England, being away from it for half a decade? Arthur knew Eames moved around a lot, tried new experiences often. Maybe today had made him realize he'd been here too long, and that it was past time to either go back, or move on to somewhere else entirely.

It wasn't a thought that Arthur had never had before, that Eames would leave at some point, likely as soon as his one current commitment was done, his time at Pacifica wrapped up. But it was one he preferred to avoid, because it meant other things he didn't like thinking about—like an expiration date on what otherwise seemed to be a relationship that, after a rough start and excluding a couple of rocky bits that had now smoothed out, Arthur generally felt grew stronger as each day passed. 

Arthur mentally shook himself. Tonight was supposed to be about showing Eames how appreciated he was. He waited another few moments, until they were on the freeway and moving more steadily towards Eames's home, and then reached carefully over, squeezing Eames's knee lightly, just once. Eames jumped, but he did manage some sort of smile. And when Arthur pulled his hand back to put it on the wheel, Eames shifted in his seat, sliding his own hand over and resting it upon Arthur's thigh. He left it there for the remainder of the drive, absently rubbing the denim of Arthur's jeans with his thumb now and then. With every small stroke, Arthur's worry receded a little more.

Eames remained quiet for the entirety of the drive, and he wordlessly moved towards the trunk of Arthur's car when they arrived, gathering the few containers of food they'd packed up to bring home after the party—some pasta dish Arthur couldn't remember the name of, but that had been amazing, plus the few servings of his cake that had remained, along with a box of assorted Greek pastries—as soon as Arthur joined him and unlocked the trunk. They wrangled it all into the house, Arthur triple-checking his trunk before shutting it, lest he leave anything perishable inside which would make for a very unpleasant discovery later. When Eames made some comment about having sand between his toes, Arthur shooed him off to go clean up or whatever he needed to do. "I can put everything away," he said, already pulling other items out of the refrigerator in order to more efficiently utilize the space. "Go on."

"And that's how I know you're finally comfortable here," Eames said with a small smirk as he headed out of the kitchen. "You're not only giving orders in my home, but reorganizing the kitchen of another cook."

Arthur snorted to himself. Okay. Eames might have a point, there.

He was just sliding the last to-go container—the one with the leftover cake, which Arthur was still pretty proud of—onto the second-highest shelf in the refrigerator when arms wrapped around his waist from behind. Arthur shut the stainless steel door and let himself lean back into the embrace, grateful that whatever had had Eames tense during the car ride over had apparently gone away. He had been trying to figure out how to best coax Eames into talking about the problem, being quite aware that the last time he'd figured it was best to ignore things, sure Eames would eventually say something about it...hadn't gone so well. Things were fine now, yes, but Arthur knew very well that they could have gone the opposite direction. But now, it seemed, there was little need for that conversation, at least in the immediate sense. Arthur still intended on bringing it up later, just floating it casually in a moment of calm instead of confronting Eames head-on. Just to be safe. "See?" Arthur said, gesturing at the refrigerator in front of them. "Everything's taken care of."

"Well, one thing is, anyway," Eames murmured, his breath tickling Arthur's ear in a way that made his skin break out into goosebumps. "Which leaves me time to take care of others."

"What do you mean by th...?" Arthur asked as he turned around, the last word trailing off, half-finished, as Eames raised one hand up along the left side of Arthur's face, thumb stroking along his cheekbone and down along his jaw as he slid it further to cup the back of Arthur's neck and pull him close. 

Arthur couldn't help the little gasp he made just before Eames kissed him, a reaction that was half surprise and half desire. Eames's lips were warm and soft as they met his, and Arthur closed his eyes and relished the feel of their mouths together, Eames's full lips parted slightly, just enough to coax Arthur's own mouth open so he could deepen the kiss, keeping it going in a way that made Arthur's skin go hot, the slide of their tongues together perfect, made even better by a moan so soft from Eames that it had to have been involuntary. It had been way too long since they'd done this, had the _time_ for this sort of thing. Arthur's right hand came up automatically, resting on Eames's left hip for a moment before sliding back to slip into the back pocket of Eames's jeans, giving him both a bit of leverage as he pulled Eames in closer and an opportunity to give Eames's ass a deliberate squeeze for the pure enjoyment of it. 

He could feel Eames smile at the move, the grin breaking their kiss, and Arthur opened his eyes and leaned back just a little, kept in place between Eames and the refrigerator door. He gave another squeeze, this time looking Eames directly in the eye as he did it, and smirked as Eames's face so plainly expressed a hunger that had nothing to do with food. He jerked his head slightly in the general direction of Eames's room, then raised his eyebrows. "Upstairs?"

Eames nodded vigorously. "Upstairs. Lead the way." He smacked Arthur's ass playfully as Arthur stepped onto the staircase, smiling when Arthur looked back over his shoulder. Arthur rolled his eyes, grinning even as he did so, and took the stairs faster.

He barely let Eames get inside the room before grabbing at his hand, using the momentum to pull Eames to him, then pressing through it to get Eames backed up against his desk. They were essentially the same height, but Eames had bulk to his muscle in a way that Arthur didn't, and it was sometimes extraordinarily satisfying to manhandle him around, knowing that Eames could resist easily if he wanted to, but chose to let Arthur exert control in certain situations. Arthur bit lightly at Eames's lower lip, tugging at it for just a moment before letting go. He loved the fullness of Eames's mouth; seeing it so pink and plush, lips wet and just slightly swollen, made Arthur want to dive into it, explore and appreciate it for all he could, even claim it as his. "Shirt off," he murmured, running his hands under the soft cotton and up along Eames's sides, helping to remove the first barrier between him and Eames. He dipped his head and mouthed at Eames's collarbone, pleased by the sigh the movement elicited. 

"Your turn," Eames murmured into his ear, pulling playfully at the bottom of Arthur's shirt where it was tucked into his jeans. He let Arthur yank it out and undo the buttons down his front, then stepped forward to help slide it off his shoulders and down his arms, freeing Arthur's hands when the rolled cuffs caught around his wrists. Arthur watched the way Eames's eyes tracked up and down his body as he lifted his elbows over his head and removed his undershirt in one quick motion, feeling a certain smugness at the appreciative hum Eames made once Arthur's chest and stomach were bare. Eames tugged him closer by his belt, tilting his head for a kiss even as his fingers worked to undo the buckle and then the button and zipper of his jeans. He shoved the denim down Arthur's thighs, dragging the cotton of his underwear with it, and splayed his hands over Arthur's hips, gripping tightly in a way that conveyed possession in a way Arthur did not mind at all. 

He did mind, however, that Eames wasn't similarly exposed. Because fair was fair, and Eames wasn't the only one who wanted to do some touching.

"Off," Arthur demanded, giving a sharp tug at the waistband of Eames's pants before stepping away in order to undress himself the rest of the way. Eames complied hurriedly, and Arthur wasted no time in moving back in, letting his hands slide around Eames's sides to rest on his ass while they pressed close, skin-to-skin, and kissed again.

He had definitely missed this, and it was nice to think Eames had, too. The only real problem Arthur had at the moment was trying to figure out if it would be more fun to let this be some quick, fevered thing, full of intensity and fire as they made up for the lack of such opportunity given time and energy levels in the past several weeks, or if it would be more enjoyable to keep a slow, leisurely pace, and enjoy the fact that they actually _had_ the time for something like that, for the first time in Arthur didn't care to work out. Given that he could easily see the benefits of either option, Arthur figured Eames could be the one to decide. 

"So how do you want to do this?" Arthur asked the next time they pulled apart, then hissed slightly as Eames pressed his face into the juncture between Arthur's neck and shoulder, biting and then laving at a spot that was frequently knotted. Neither of them were fully erect yet, but Arthur's dick was far from uninterested, and it might be nice to know how much stamina he was going to need here. 

"Hm?" Eames said against his neck, sucking at the pulse-point in a way that made Arthur shiver, before he pulled back and stood up straight to look directly at Arthur. "You mean, which position, or who's top or bottom first?"

Arthur raised an eyebrow. 'First' definitely implied this might not be a quick two-minute burst of activity followed by calling it a night. He and Eames had only had sex—well, what Arthur thought of as actual sex anyway—a handful of times over the last few months (which wasn't to say that they hadn't fooled around and otherwise gotten each other off, additionally, because Arthur had very fond memories of a number of those occasions, thank you). It had been sort of a mutual relief to find they both enjoyed versatility in their sexual activities and roles. There were times they each preferred one over the other, and he and Eames had an agreement to always be open about that sort of thing, if it mattered to them. "No preference on that tonight, personally, but I meant more the pacing." He leaned back in and licked the spot behind Eames's ear he knew he liked, then caught the lobe and gave it one quick suck, scraping his teeth over it as he let it go. "Fast, hard, slow, easy," he breathed into the shell of Eames's ear while rubbing one hand up Eames's chest and then around to his back, feeling the skin under his fingertips break out into goosebumps. "Whatever you want." He dropped his other hand down between them, wrapped his fingers lightly around Eames's now noticeably firmer length, and gave it a single stroke before trailing his fingertips up Eames's thigh to brush against his abdomen and then rest on his hip. "I'm happy to follow your lead."

"You're going to be the bloody death of me, you know that?" Eames said with a slight rasp in his voice. "But if you insist..." He stepped forward, walking them both over to his bed, and gave Arthur a gentle push down, waiting until he'd moved close enough to the center of the mattress to climb behind him, bottle of lube from the nightstand in hand. He settled himself so that he was facing Arthur, a position which made it easy to continue kissing, as well as providing easy access for him to slowly stroke Arthur to full hardness. Eames swallowed down Arthur's small moan when he ran his thumb over the head of his dick, pulling back with a grin. "You put an awful lot of work into making certain I enjoyed myself this afternoon," he murmured, hand still stroking Arthur's length with a slow, steady rhythm. "And now I intend to return the favor."

Arthur felt his whole body flush hot at that, and he couldn’t quite bite back the short _"fuck"_ that passed his lips as he realized those words were as good as a promise.

"Yes, we'll get there," Eames said with a chuckle. "Though I was thinking perhaps I'd like it if you'd let me do most of the work and ride you, so I could get a good view of you here in my bed."

"Who's going to be the death of whom?" Arthur muttered, trying not to buck his hips into Eames's hand. "You fucking tease."

"Now, Arthur, you're only a tease if you don't intend to follow through. And I _very_ much intend to make good on this. Just wait and see."

Arthur snorted, a noise that turned into something like a gasp as Eames gave his hand a twist at the end of an upstroke. "Enough talking." He pushed away, despite his dick's protest at the sudden lack of attention, and sat up, reaching for the bottle that had made it somewhere near their feet. "It's been a while, all right? If you want to have more than a ten-second ride, we're going to have to switch things up for a bit." He knelt at Eames's side and raised his eyebrows. "On your stomach."

"I do love it when you take charge," Eames murmured, rolling over obediently. He spread his legs without being asked as Arthur moved, settling himself in the V between them and slicking up his hand. 

He braced himself with one hand on Eames's ass, able to use the position as leverage while also spreading him just slightly open. He took satisfaction in Eames's interested hum as Arthur drizzled a small amount of lube where he wanted it, and took even more from the ragged breath Eames drew when Arthur pressed the pad of his thumb gently against Eames's hole and swiped over it deliberately, massaging it for several moments before even thinking of starting to open him up at all.

Given Eames's earlier words, Arthur took his time in prepping Eames, going slowly with just one finger for a minute or two, pressing occasional kisses to the back of Eames's thigh, the small of his back, and the firm, round muscle of his ass. Once Eames started trying to push back against him, seeking more, Arthur added a second finger. He kept a pace that was just shy of teasing, enjoying the small noises Eames made, punctuating his quickening breaths. When he rotated his wrist a little and crooked his fingers, dragging them over Eames's prostate, he was rewarded with a muffled shout and a string of words that weren't in English, but were identifiable as cursing nonetheless. 

"Was that a 'stop' or a 'keep going'?" Arthur asked, eyebrows raised, even though Eames wasn't looking at his face.

"It was a 'stop and I'll bloody murder you' and you damned well know it," Eames said, panting, and Arthur grinned and replicated the movement, loving the way Eames bore down around his fingers as his whole body spasmed slightly. He reached down and gave himself a few slow strokes to appease his own body, telling his dick that waiting now would pay off in the end, so long as he didn't tease _himself_ so much like this that he went off like a bottle rocket before they really got going. 

When Eames started rutting steadily against the mattress for the friction, Arthur slowly withdrew his fingers and smacked Eames's right ass cheek lightly. "Up." Eames did as he was told as Arthur retrieved a towel and cleaned off his fingers before reaching for the condom Eames held out to him. "Ready, then?"

Eames snorted. "Yes, I should say so. Are you?" His face and chest were flushed, his lips even plumper from biting at them, and his debauched appearance made Arthur want to pounce on him and drag him to the bed. Eames laughed, apparently seeing some of that on his face and the way he'd stopped moving in favor of appreciating the sight. "I'll take that expression as a yes." He took the foil packet from Arthur's fingers. "Let me." With fingers as deft as those of a pickpocket, he removed the condom from its wrapper and rolled it down Arthur's length, smirking when Arthur inhaled sharply at the little bit of friction. Eames gestured behind them with his chin. "Bed. Let's go."

Arthur didn't have to be told twice. 

It took a moment to get positioned right, a pillow under his hips for just a little bit of leverage and another, thicker one under his head, but once he was in place, Eames crawled up the bed, looking predatory, and straddled Arthur's thighs. "Indulge me for just a moment," Eames murmured, already leaning down, and then took Arthur's nipple between his teeth, gently worrying at it, alternating the scrape of his teeth with flicks of his tongue in a way that had Arthur's back arching slightly and his entire body feeling tiny sparks of pleasure. Eames wrapped his thumb and index finger around the very base of Arthur's dick, just below the ring of the condom, and gave a squeezing sort of very short stroke, repeating it every few seconds as he switched to Arthur's other nipple and gave it some of its own attention. 

"Fuck, Eames," Arthur moaned, bucking his hips into Eames's hand, trying to get more stimulation to the rest of his dick, without having any luck. "That's. Fuck." His brain was halfway to short-circuiting, and they weren't even at the main event yet. It either spoke poorly of Arthur, or really highly of Eames. 

Eames gave a soft chuckle, removed his hand, and got up on his hands and knees to shuffle a little closer, just enough to capture Arthur's mouth in a kiss, hot and wet and dirty in a way that made Arthur shiver and gasp. "Ready now?" he asked, pulling back, and Arthur just nodded dumbly, trying to catch his breath and focus so he could enjoy their next activity without shooting off three seconds after Eames got in place. "Excellent."

Eames threw one leg over him, straddling him in one smooth move, sitting on Arthur's thighs. He poured a good amount of lube into one hand and Arthur bit his lower lip as Eames slicked him up and stroked him for several moments after, until Arthur finally bit out, "I think that's good, come on," relieved when Eames shifted, moving up a few inches, and gripped the base of his dick before guiding it to the right place, hovering so the head of Arthur's dick was just barely pressing against Eames's hole.

Eames lowered himself down onto Arthur's dick with a tortuously slow movement, and Arthur shoved his clenched fist against his mouth, bit hard at the fleshy bit of the heel of his hand where his thumb joined the palm, and moaned, trying to keep his hips from snapping up to chase that tight heat, letting Eames go at his own pace. After a moment of keeping still, he lowered the rest of the way with a long exhale, and Arthur felt the moment Eames's body adjusted to Arthur being inside him several seconds later. He was going to say something, to see if Eames maybe needed to wait for a little bit, but then Eames lifted and lowered himself again, moving in a very slow, regular rhythm of shallow thrusts, and Arthur's vision went a little blurred and his tongue failed entirely at trying to form words as everything was turned to focus on the feeling of Eames on top of him, around him, everything in his awareness just heat and firm muscle and friction that set off small sparks in his body with every slide.

It took Arthur a few minutes to get his head together enough to think halfway straight, Eames managing to sense each time Arthur was close enough to be reasonably coherent again and adjusting his rhythm to be either slower or faster or clenching tighter and shorting out his thought processes. Eventually, though, he got to a point where he had _some_ semblance of brain function, managing to locate the bottle near his head and open it quietly, slicking up one hand while he watched Eames move above him, flushed and sweaty, eyes closed tight as he rode Arthur in a steady rhythm, long drags up Arthur's dick and back down. 

Arthur wrapped his slick hand around Eames's erection, a move that had Eames choking out a thick "fuck" and faltering in his rhythm, eyes flying open. He looked like half the fantasies Arthur'd ever had come to life: muscles flexed, the dark ink of his tattoos across one pectoral, shoulder, and bicep standing out against the smooth golden hue of tanned skin, hair disheveled and damp with sweat, mouth plush and bright pink and panting, and eyes that were a shade of blue-green-grey that changed often enough to keep Arthur looking, trying to find the most accurate name for it. "You're gorgeous," Arthur breathed, stroking him again, feeling the shudder that went through Eames even in his own dick, pushing him a little closer to the threshold of orgasm. The noise that Eames made in response, something almost like a cross between groan and whimper, only added to it, and Arthur shivered and began stroking in earnest.

Eames leaned back a few moments later, pulling Arthur up with him by the wrist. After they got the awkwardness of their position settled, scooting back until Arthur could lean his back against the pillows piled against the headboard, Eames nearly lunged at him, pressing their mouths together and kissing hungrily in a way that made Arthur moan. It took some coordination, but Arthur managed to keep his hand on Eames, jerking him off as Eames rode him with shallow thrusts, all that their current position would really allow, while still being in a position that allowed them to continue kissing. He could tell Eames was getting close by the hitches in his breathing, the moans Arthur swallowed down greedily, and the enthusiasm in his rocking movements. Truth be told, Arthur wasn't exactly far from his own orgasm, and he had no idea who might reach theirs first. "Whenever you're ready, go," he said a few moments later, licking at Eames's neck and savoring the salt taste of his sweat. "I'm close."

"That's what I've been waiting to hear," Eames said, and his voice sounded nearly as wrecked as Arthur thought his own did. He leaned forward in another kiss, only this time he breathed in on Arthur's exhale, then out on Arthur's inhale, keeping their mouths together so that they exchanged the breath before pulling away. It was like shotgunning without the smoke ; whether it was due to the changed ratios of oxygen and carbon dioxide or the intimacy in the action, Arthur wasn't sure, but the act made him lightheaded in a new, amazing way. Arthur initiated it next a moment later, keeping their mouths sealed together for several more deep breaths, breaking it off only when Eames clenched down hard around his dick and jerked like he was being flooded with electricity, coming in Arthur's hand, hot spurts of it splashing against Arthur's chest and stomach. 

And that was all it took to send Arthur over the edge, his own orgasm ripping through him and flooding his body with heat and sparking lights, making his vision go white for a few blissful, intense moments while Eames squeezed around his dick, the aftershocks of his own orgasm milking the last of Arthur's out of him.

Eames slumped against Arthur, panting harshly, and Arthur was glad he was leaning against something solid, because there was no way he could have held them both up, otherwise. It took nearly all his remaining energy to lift his arms to circle around Eames's lower back in something like a weak hug. "That. That was intense," he said a few moments later, once he'd caught his breath enough to speak.

"Agreed," Eames mumbled into his shoulder before finally sitting up and disentangling himself, climbing off the bed on legs that still seemed kind of wobbly. He slid the condom off of Arthur and dropped it into the trashcan at the side of the bed, then used the towel to clean them both up somewhat before climbing back beside Arthur on the bed and pulling him down until they were lying next to each other in their usual spots. "I quite enjoyed that," he said with a yawn, tugging Arthur closer so he could wrap one arm around Arthur's back. "And I wasn't the only one, I hope."

"You weren't the only one," Arthur said with a huffed laugh that turned into a yawn of its own. He closed his eyes, hearing the heavy beat of Eames's heart in the chest under Arthur's head. It was incredibly soothing. 

"Good. I meant to express how much I appreciate you, earlier," Eames said, low and lazy, his thumb rubbing light strokes against Arthur's hip. "Because I do, you know."

"I know," Arthur murmured against his skin. He did know it. Eames was good with those sorts of gestures, the non-sexual ones that were more romantic and thoughtful and generally affectionate. And hopefully Eames knew it went both ways, even if Arthur wasn't nearly as good about that sort of thing. He wondered if Eames noticed when he tried. He suspected that he might. 

He also suspected that this thing he felt for Eames was something you could call love, or was at least approaching it. He opened his mouth to say something, a little comment to feel around the situation, but before he could, Eames let out a soft snore. Arthur grinned a little at the noise, shifted so he was somewhat more comfortable, pleased when Eames shifted in response and made a quiet, content sort of sigh, dragging Arthur closer and into the perfect position for sleep. It was less than a minute later that Arthur himself drifted off to sleep, lulled the rest of the way under by the strong, steady thump of Eames's heartbeat that was so intimate and familiar.


End file.
